ML^^P 

swftw^ 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


# 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


What  Maisie  Knew 


BY 


HENRY    JAMES 


HERBERT   S.  STONE    &   CO. 
CHICAGO    &   NEW   YORK 

MDCCCXCVII 


COPYRIGHT      1897     BY 
HERBERT  S.    STONE  &  CO. 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


THE  litigation  had  seemed  interminable, 
and  had  in  fact  been  complicated ;  but, 
by  the  decision  on  the  appeal,  the  judgment 
of  the  divorce-court  was  confirmed  as  to  the 
assignment  of  the  child.  The  father,  who, 
though  bespattered  from  head  to  foot,  had 
made  good  his  case,  was,  in  pursuance  of 
this  triumph,  appointed  to  keep  her :  it  was 
not  so  much  that  the  mother's  character  had 
been  more  absolutely  damaged  as  that  the 
brilliancy  of  a  lady's  complexion  (and  this 
lady's,  in  court,  was  immensely  remarked), 
might  be  more  regarded  as  showing  the 
spots.  Attached,  however,  to  the  second 
announcement  was  a  condition  that  detracted, 
for  Beale  Farange,  from  its  sweetness,  —  an 
order  that  he  should  refund  to  his  late  wife 
the  twenty-six  hundred  pounds  put  down  by 
her,  as  it  was  called,  some  three  years  before, 
in  the  interest  of  her  child's  maintenance, 
and  precisely  on  a  proved  understanding  that 


2          WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

he  would  take  no  proceedings;  a  sum  of 
which  he  had  had  the  administration,  and  of 
which  he  could  render  not  the  least  account ! 
The  obligation  thus  attributed  to  her  adver- 
sary was  no  small  balm  to  Ida's  resentment. 
It  drew  a  part  of  the  sting  from  her  defeat, 
and  compelled  Mr.  Farange  perceptibly  to 
lower  his  crest.  He  was  unable  to  produce 
the  money  or  to  raise  it  in  any  way;  so 
that  after  a  squabble  scarcely  less  public 
and  scarcely  more  decent  than  the  original 
shock  of  battle,  his  only  issue  from  his  pre- 
dicament was  a  compromise  proposed  by  his 
legal  advisers,  and  finally  accepted  by  hers. 

His  debt  was  by  this  arrangement  remitted 
to  him,  and  the  little  girl  disposed  of  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  the  judgment-seat  of 
Solomon.  She  was  cut  in  twain,  and  the 
portions  tossed  impartially  to  the  disputants. 
They  would  take  her  in  rotation  for  six 
months  at  a  time ;  she  would  spend  half  the 
year  with  each.  This  was  odd  justice  in 
the  eyes  of  those  who  still  blinked  in  the 
fierce  light  projected  from  the  divorce- court, 
— a  light  in  which  neither  parent  figured  in 
the  least  as  a  happy  example  to  youth  and 
innocence.  What  was  to  have  been  expected 
on  the  evidence  was  the  nomination  in  loco 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW         3 

parentis,  of  some  proper  third  person,  some 
respectable  or  at  least  some  presentable 
friend.  Apparently,  however,  the  circle  of 
the  Faranges  had  been  scanned  in  vain  for 
any  such  ornament;  so  that  the  only  solu- 
tion finally  meeting  all  the  difficulties  was  — 
save  that  of  sending  Maisie  to  a  home  —  the 
diversion  of  the  tutelary  office  in  the  manner 
I  have  mentioned.  There  were  more  reasons 
for  her  parents  to  agree  to  it  than  there  had 
ever  been  for  them  to  agree  to  anything; 
and  they  now  prepared,  with  her  help,  to 
enjoy  the  distinction  that  waits  upon  vulgar- 
ity sufficiently  attested.  Their  rupture  had 
resounded,  and  after  being  perfectly  insig- 
nificant together,  they  would  be  decidedly 
striking  apart.  Had  they  not  produced  an 
impression  that  warranted  people  in  looking 
for  appeals  in  the  newspapers  for  the  rescue 
of  the  little  one,  —  reverberation,  amid  a 
vociferous  public,  of  the  idea  that  some 
movement  should  be  started  or  some  benevo- 
lent person  should  come  forward  ?  A  good 
lady  came  indeed  a  step  or  two.  She  was 
distantly  related  to  Mrs.  Farange,  to  whom 
she  proposed  that,  having  children  and 
nurseries  wound  up  and  going,  she  should 
be  allowed  to  take  home  the  bone  of  con- 


4          WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

tention,  and,  by  working  it  into  her  system, 
relieve  at  least  one  of  her  parents.  This 
would  make  every  time,  for  Maisie,  after 
her  inevitable  six  months  with  Beale,  much 
more  of  a  change. 

"  More  of  a  change  ?  "  Ida  cried.  "  Won't 
it  be  enough  of  a  change  for  her  to  come 
from  that  low  brute  to  the  person  in  the 
world  who  detests  him  most." 

"  No,  because  you  detest  him  so  much  that 
you  '11  always  talk  to  her  about  him.  You  '11 
keep  him  before  her  by  perpetually  abusing 
him." 

Mrs.  Farange  stared.  "Pray,  then,  am  I 
to  do  nothing  to  counteract  his  villainous 
abuse  of  me?" 

The  good  lady,  for  a  moment,  made  no 
reply.  Her  silence  was  a  grim  judgment 
of  the  whole  point  of  view.  "Poor  little 
monkey!"  she  at  last  exclaimed,  and  the 
words  were  an  epitaph  for  the  tomb  of 
Maisie's  childhood.  She  was  abandoned  to 
her  fate.  What  was  clear  to  any  spectator 
was  that  the  only  link  binding  her  to  either 
parent  was  this  lamentable  fact  of  her  being 
a  ready  vessel  for  bitterness,  a  deep  little 
porcelain  cup  in  which  biting  acids  could  be 
mixed.  They  had  wanted  her,  not  for  any 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW          5 

good  they  could  do  her,  but  for  the  harm 
they  could,  with  her  unconscious  aid,  do 
each  other.  She  should  serve  their  anger 
and  seal  their  revenge,  for  husband  and  wife 
had  been  alike  crippled  by  the  heavy  hand 
of  justice,  which,  in  the  last  resort,  met  on 
neither  side  their  indignant  claim  to  get,  as 
they  called  it,  everything.  If  each  was  only 
to  get  half,  this  seemed  to  concede  that 
neither  was  so  base  as  the  other  pretended; 
or,  to  put  it  differently,  offered  them  as  both 
bad  indeed,  since  they  were  only  as  good 
as  each  other.  The  mother  had  wished  to 
prevent  the  father  from,  as  she  said,  "so 
much  as  looking"  at  the  child;  the  father's 
plea  was  that  the  mother's  lightest  touch 
was  "simply  contamination."  These  were 
the  opposed  principles  in  which  Maisie  was 
to  be  educated ;  she  was  to  fit  them  together 
as  she  might.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  touching  at  first  than  her  failure  to 
suspect  the  ordeal  that  awaited  her  little 
unspotted  soul.  There  were  persons  horri- 
fied to  think  what  those  who  had  charge  of 
it  would  combine  to  try  to  make  of  it;  no 
one  could  conceive  in  advance  that  they 
would  be  able  to  make  nothing  ill. 

This  was  a  society  in  which,  for  the  most 


6         WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

part,  people  were  occupied  only  with  chat- 
ter, but  the  disunited  couple  had  at  last 
grounds  for  expecting  a  period  of  high  activ- 
ity. They  girded  their  loins ;  they  felt  as  if 
the  quarrel  had  only  begun.  They  felt 
indeed  more  married  than  ever,  inasmuch  as 
what  marriage  had  mainly  suggested  to  them 
was  the  high  opportunity  to  quarrel.  There 
had  been  "sides"  before,  and  there  were 
sides  as  much  as  ever;  for  the  sider,  too, 
the  prospect  opened  out,  taking  the  pleasant 
form  of  a  superabundance  of  matter  for 
desultory  conversation.  The  many  friends 
of  the  Faranges  drew  together  to  differ 
about  them  —  contradiction  grew  young 
again  over  teacups  and  cigars.  Everybody 
was  always  assuring  everybody  of  something 
very  shocking,  and  nobody  would  have  been 
jolly  if  nobody  had  been  outrageous.  The 
pair  appeared  to  have  a  social  attraction 
which  failed  merely  as  regards  each  other. 
It  was  indeed  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to  say 
for  Ida  that  no  one  but  Beale  desired  her 
blood ;  and  for  Beale  that  if  he  should  ever 
have  his  eyes  scratched  out  it  would  be  only 
by  his  wife.  It  was  generally  felt,  to  begin 
with,  that  they  were  awfully  good-looking; 
they  had  really  not  been  analyzed  to  a  deeper 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW          7 

residuum.  They  made  up  together,  for  in- 
stance, some  twelve  feet  of  stature;  and 
nothing  was  more  discussed  than  the  appor- 
tionment of  this  quantity.  The  sole  flaw  in 
Ida's  beauty  was  a  length  and  reach  of  arm 
conducive  perhaps  to  her  having  so  often 
beaten  her  ex-husband  at  billiards  —  a  game 
in  which  she  showed  a  superiority  largely 
accountable,  as  she  maintained,  for  the  re- 
sentment finding  expression  in  his  physical 
violence.  Billiards  were  her  great  accom- 
plishment and  the  distinction  her  name 
always  first  produced  the  mention  of.  Not- 
withstanding some  very  long  lines,  every- 
thing about  her  that  might  have  been  large, 
and  that  in  many  women  profited  by  the 
license,  was,  with  a  single  exception,  admired 
and  cited  for  its  smallness.  The  exception 
was  her  eyes,  which  might  have  been  of 
mere  regulation  size,  but  which  overstepped 
the  modesty  of  nature.  Her  mouth,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  barely  perceptible,  and  odds 
were  freely  taken  as  to  the  measurement  of 
her  waist.  She  was  a  person  who,  when  she 
was  out  —  and  she  was  always  out  —  produced 
everywhere  a  sense  of  having  been  often 
seen,  the  sense  indeed  of  a  kind  of  abuse  of 
visibility,  so  that  it  would  have  been,  in  the 


8         WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

usual  places,  rather  vulgar  to  wonder  at  her. 
Strangers  only  did  that;  but  they,  to  the 
amusement  of  the  familiar,  did  it  very  much ; 
it  was  an  inevitable  way  of  betraying  an 
alien  habit.  Like  her  husband,  she  carried 
clothes,  carried  them  as  a  train  carries  pas- 
sengers. People  had  been  known  to  compare 
their  taste  and  dispute  about  the  accommo- 
dation they  gave  these  articles,  though 
inclining  on  the  whole  to  the  commendation 
of  Ida  as  less  overcrowded,  especially  with 
jewelry  and  flowers.  Beale  Farange  had 
natural  decorations,  a  kind  of  costume  in 
his  vast  fair  beard,  burnished  like  a  gold 
breastplate,  and  in  the  eternal  glitter  of  the 
teeth  that  his  long  mustache  had  been 
trained  not  to  hide  and  that  gave  him,  in 
every  possible  situation,  the  look  of  the  joy 
of  life.  He  had  been  destined  in  his  youth 
to  diplomacy  and  momentarily  attached, 
without  a  salary,  to  a  legation  which  enabled 
him  often  to  say  "In  my  time,  in  the 
East ;  "  but  contemporary  history  had  some- 
how had  no  use  for  him,  had  hurried  past 
him  and  left  him  in  perpetual  Piccadilly. 
Every  one  knew  what  he  had  —  only  twenty- 
five  hundred.  Poor  Ida,  who  had  run  through 
everything,  had  now  nothing  but  her  car- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW          9 

riage  and  her  paralyzed  uncle.  This  old 
brute,  as  he  was  called,  was  supposed  to 
have  a  lot  put  away.  The  child  was  pro- 
vided for,  thanks  to  a  crafty  godmother,  a 
defunct  aunt  of  Beale's,  who  had  left  her 
something  in  such  a  manner  that  the  parents 
could  appropriate  only  the  income. 


THE  child  was  provided  for;  but  the  new 
arrangement  was  inevitably  confounding  to 
a  young  intelligence,  intensely  aware  that 
something  had  happened  which  must  matter 
a  good  deal  and  looking  anxiously  for  the 
great  effects  of  so  great  a  cause.  It  was  to 
be  the  fate  of  this  patient  little  girl  to  see 
much  more  than,  at  first,  she  understood, 
but  also,  even  at  first,  to  understand  much 
more- than  any  little  girl,  however  patient, 
had  perhaps  ever  understood  before.  Only 
a  drummer-boy  in  a  ballad  or  a  story  could 
have  been  so  in  the  thick  of  the  fight.  She 
was  taken  into  the  confidence  of  passions  on 
which  she  fixed  just  the  stare  she  might 
have  had  for  images  bounding  across  the 
wall  in  the  slide  of  a  magic-lantern.  Her 


io       WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

little  world  was  phantasmagoric  —  strange 
shadows  dancing  on  a  sheet.  It  was  as  if 
the  whole  performance  had  been  given  for 
her  —  a  mite  of  a  half-scared  infant  in  a 
great  dim  theatre.  She  was  in  short  intro- 
duced to  life  with  a  liberality  in  which  the 
selfishness  of  others  found  its  account,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  avert  the  sacrifice  but 
the  modesty  of  her  youth. 

Her  first  term  was  with  her  father,  who 
spared  her  only  in  not  letting  her  have  the 
wild  letters  addressed  to  her  by  her  mother. 
He  confined  himself  to  holding  them  up  at 
her  and  shaking  them,  while  he  showed  his 
teeth,  and  then  amusing  her  by  the  way  he 
chucked  them,  across  the  room,  bang  into 
the  fire.  Even  at  that  moment,  however, 
she  had  a  scared  anticipation  of  fatigue,  a 
guilty  sense  of  not  rising  to  the  occasion, 
feeling  the  charm  of  the  violence  with  which 
the  stiff  unopened  envelopes,  whose  big 
monograms — Ida  bristled  with  monograms 
—  she  would  have  liked  to  see,  were  made 
to  whiz,  like  dangerous  missiles,  through 
the  air.  The  greatest  effect  of  the  great 
cause  was  her  own  greater  importance, 
chiefly  revealed  to  her  in  the  larger  freedom 
with  which  she  was  handled,  pulled  hither 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW         n 

and  thither  and  kissed,  and  the  proportion- 
ately greater  niceness  she  was  obliged  to 
show.  Her  features  had  somehow  become 
prominent ;  they  were  so  perpetually  nipped 
by  the  gentlemen  who  came  to  see  her 
father  and  the  smoke  of  whose  cigarettes 
went  into  her  face.  Some  of  these  gentle- 
men made  her  strike  matches  and  light  their 
cigarettes ;  others,  holding  her  on  knees 
violently  jolted,  pinched  the  calves  of  her 
legs  until  she  shrieked  —  her  shriek  was 
much  admired  —  and  reproached  them  with 
being  toothpicks.  The  word  stuck  in  her 
mind  and  contributed  to  her  feeling  from 
this  time  that  she  was  deficient  in  something 
that  would  meet  the  general  desire.  She 
found  out  what  it  was :  that  a  congenital 
tendency  to  the  production  of  a  substance  to 
which  Moddle,  her  nurse,  gave  a  short,  ugly 
name,  a  name  painfully  associated  with  the 
part  of  the  joint,  at  dinner,  that  she  did  n't 
like.  She  had  left  behind  her  the  time 
when  she  had  no  desires  to  meet,  none  at 
least  save  Moddle' s,  who,  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  was  always  on  the  bench  when  she 
came  back  to  see  if  she  had  been  playing  too 
far.  Moddle' s  desire  was  merely  that  she 

shouldn't  do  that;  and  she  met  it  so  easily 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


12        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

that  the  only  spots  in  this  long  brightness 
were  the  moments  of  her  wondering  what 
would  become  of  her  if,  on  her  coming  back, 
there  should  be  no  Moddle  on  the  bench. 
They  still  went  to  the  Gardens,  but  there 
was  a  difference  even  there.  She  was  im- 
pelled perpetually  to  look  at  the  legs  of 
other  children  and  ask  her  nurse  if  they 
were  toothpicks.  Moddle  was  terribly  truth- 
ful —  she  always  said :  "  Oh,  my  dear,  you  '11 
not  find  such  another  pair  as  your  own  ! "  It 
seemed  to  have  to  do  with  something  else 
that  Moddle  often  said:  "You  feel  the 
strain  —  that 's  where  it  is;  and  you  '11  feel 
it  still  worse,  you  know." 

Thus,  from  the  first,  Maisie  not  only  felt 
it,  but  knew  that  she  felt  it.  A  part  of  it 
was  the  consequence  of  her  father's  telling 
her  that  he  felt  it  too,  and  telling  Moddle, 
in  her  presence,  that  she  must  make  a  point 
of  driving  that  home.  She  was  familiar,  at 
the  age  of  six,  with  the  fact  that  everything 
had  been  changed  on  her  account,  everything 
ordered  to  enable  him  to  give  himself  up  to 
her.  She  was  to  remember  always  the  words 
in  which  Moddle  impressed  upon  her  that 
he  did  so  give  himself :  "  Your  papa  wishes 
you  never  to  forget,  you  know,  that  he  has 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        13 

been  dreadfully  put  about. "  If  the  skin  on 
Moddle's  face  had,  to  Maisie,  the  air  of 
being  unduly,  almost  painfully  stretched,  it 
never  presented  that  appearance  so  much  as 
when  she  uttered,  as  she  often  had  occasion 
to  utter,  such  words.  The  child  wondered  if 
they  didn't  make  it  hurt  more  than  usual; 
but  it  was  only  after  some  time  that  she  was 
able  to  attach  to  the  picture  of  her  father's 
sufferings,  and  more  particularly  to  her 
nurse's  manner  about  them,  the  meaning  for 
which  these  things  had  waited.  By  the 
time  she  had  grown  sharper,  as  the  gentle- 
men who  criticised  her  calves  used  to  say, 
she  found  in  her  mind  a  collection  of  images 
and  echoes  to  which  meanings  were  attach- 
able —  images  and  echo.es  kept  for  her  in  the 
childish  dusk,  the  dim  closet,  the  high 
drawers,  like  games  she  was  not  yet  big 
enough  to  play.  The  great  strain  meanwhile 
was  that  of  carrying,  by  the  right  end,  the 
things  her  father  said  about  her  mother  — 
things  mostly,  indeed,  that  Moddle,  on  a 
glimpse  of  them,  as  if  they  had  been  compli- 
cated toys  or  difficult  books,  took  out  of  her 
hands  and  put  away  in  the  closet.  It  was  a 
wonderful  assortment  of  objects  of  this  kind 
that  she  discovered  there  later,  all  tumbled 


14        WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

up  too  with  the  things,  shuffled  into  the 
same  receptacle,  that  her  mother  had  said 
about  her  father. 

She  had  the  knowledge  that  on  a  certain 
occasion  which  every  day  brought  nearer, 
her  mother  would  be  at  the  door  to  take  her 
away;  and  this  would  have  darkened  all  the 
days  if  the  ingenious  Moddle  had  not  written 
on  a  paper,  in  very  big,  easy  words,  ever  so 
many  pleasures  that  she  would  enjoy  at  the 
other  house.  These  promises  ranged  from  "  a 
mother's  fond  love"  to  "a  nice  poached  egg 
to  your  tea;  "  and  took  by  the  way  the  pros- 
pect of  sitting  up  ever  so  late  to  see  the  lady 
in  question  dressed  in  silks  and  velvets  and 
diamonds  and  pearls  to  go  out.  So  that  it 
was  a  real  support  to  Maisie,  at  the  supreme 
hour,  to  feel  that,  by  Moddle' s  direction, 
the  paper  was  thrust  away  in  her  pocket 
and  there  clenched  in  her  fist.  The  supreme 
hour  was  to  furnish  her  with  a  vivid  reminis- 
cence, that  of  a  strange  outbreak,  in  the 
drawing-room,  on  the  part  of  Moddle,  who, 
in  reply  to  something  her  father  had  just 
said,  cried  aloud :  "  You  ought  to  be  per- 
fectly ashamed  of  yourself;  you  ought  to 
blush,  sir,  for  the  way  you  go  on!"  The 
carriage,  with  her  mother  in  it,  was  at  the 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        15 

door.  A  gentleman  who  was  there,  who 
was  always  there,  laughed  out  very  loud. 
Her  father,  who  had  her  in  his  arms,  said  to 
Moddle:  "My  dear  woman,  I'll  settle  you 
presently ! "  after  which  he  repeated,  show- 
ing his  teeth  more  than  ever  at  Maisie  while 
he  hugged  her,  the  words  for  which  her 
nurse  had  taken  him  up.  Maisie  was  not  at 
the  moment  so  fully  conscious  of  them  as  of 
the  wonder  of  Moddle's  sudden  disrespect 
and  crimson  face ;  but  she  was  able  to  pro- 
duce them,  in  the  course  of  five  minutes, 
when,  in  the  carriage,  her  mother,  all 
kisses,  ribbons,  eyes,  arms,  strange  sounds 
and  sweet  smells,  said  to  her:  "And  did 
your  beastly  papa,  my  precious  angel,  send 
any  message  to  your  own  loving  mamma? " 
Then  it  was  that  she  found  the  words  spoken 
by  her  beastly  papa  to  be,  after  all,  in  her 
little  bewildered  ears,  from  which,  at  her 
mother's  appeal,  they  passed,  in  her  clear, 
shrill  voice,  straight  to  her  little  innocent 
lips.  "He  said  I  was  to  tell  you  from 
him,"  she  faithfully  reported,  "that  you're 
a  nasty  horrid  pig ! " 


16        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


II 


IN  that  lively  sense  of  the  immediate 
which  is  the  very  air  of  a  child's  mind,  the 
past,  on  each  occasion,  became,  for  her,  as 
indistinct  as  the  future:  she  surrendered 
herself  to  the  actual  with  a  good  faith  that 
might  have  been  touching  to  either  parent. 
Crudely  as  they  had  calculated  they  were 
at  first  justified  by  the  event;  she  was  the 
little  feathered  shuttlecock  that  they  fiercely 
kept  flying  between  them.  The  evil  they 
had  the  gift  of  thinking  or  pretending  to 
think  of  each  other  they  poured  into  her 
little  gravely-gazing  soul  as  into  a  boundless 
receptacle;  and  each  of  them  had  doubtless 
the  best  conscience  in  the  world  as  to  the 
duty  of  teaching  her  the  stern  truth  that 
should  be  her  safeguard  against  the  other. 
She  was  at  the  age  when  all  stories  are  true 
and  all  conceptions  are  stories.  The  actual 
was  the  absolute;  the  present  alone  was 
vivid.  The  objurgation,  for  instance, 
launched  in  the  carriage  by  her  mother  after 
she  had,  at  her  father's  bidding,  punctually 
performed,  was  a  missive  that  dropped  into 
her  memory  with  the  dry  rattle  of  a  letter 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        17 

falling  into  a  pillar-box.  Like  the  letter, 
it  was,  as  part  of  the  contents  of  a  well- 
stuffed  post-bag,  delivered  in  due  course  at 
the  right  address.  In  the  presence  of  these 
overflowings,  after  they  had  continued  for  a 
couple  of  years,  the  associates  of  either 
party  sometimes  felt  that  something  should 
be  done  for  what  they  called  "the  real  good, 
don't  you  know?  "  of  the  child.  The  only 
thing  done,  however,  in  general,  took  place 
when  it  was  sighingly  remarked  that  she 
fortunately  wasn't  all  the  year  round  where 
she  happened  to  be  at  the  awkward  moment; 
and  that,  furthermore,  either  from  extreme 
cunning  or  from  extreme  stupidity,  she 
appeared  not  to  take  things  in. 

The  theory  of  her  stupidity,  eventually 
embraced  by  her  parents,  corresponded  with 
a  great  date  in  her  small,  still  life,  the  com- 
plete vision,  private  but  final,  of  the  strange 
office  she  filled.  It  was  literally  a  moral 
revolution,  and  it  was  accomplished  in  the 
depth  of  her  nature.  The  stiff  dolls  on  the 
dusky  shelves  began  to  move  their  arms  and 
legs ;  old  forms  and  phrases  began  to  have  a 
sense  that  fright?  Aed  her.  She  had  a  new 
feeling,  the  feelAg  of  danger  —  on  which  a 
new  remedy  rc/e  to  meet  it,  the  idea  of  an 


18        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

inner  self  or,  in  other  words,  of  conceal- 
ment. She  puzzled  out  with  imperfect  signs, 
but  with  a  prodigious  spirit,  that  she  had 
been  a  centre  of  hatred  and  a  messenger  of 
insult,  and  that  everything  was  bad  because 
she  had  been  employed  to  make  it  so.  Her 
parted  lips  locked  themselves  with  the  deter- 
mination to  be  employed  no  longer.  She 
would  forget  everything;  she  would  repeat 
nothing ;  and  when,  as  a  tribute  to  the  suc- 
cessful application  of  her  system,  she  began 
to  be  called  a  little  idiot,  she  tasted  a 
pleasure  altogether  new.  If,  accordingly, 
as  she  grew  older,  her  parents  in  turn,  in 
her  presence,  announced  that  she  had  grown 
shockingly  dull,  it  was  not  from  any  real 
contraction  of  her  little  stream  of  life.  She 
spoiled  'their  fun,  but  she  practically  added 
to  her  own.  She  saw  more  and  more;  she 
saw  too  much.  It  was  Miss  Overmore,  her 
first  governess,  who,  on  a  momentous  occa- 
sion, had  sown  the  seeds  of  secrecy,  sown 
them  not  by  anything  she  said,  but  by  a 
mere  roll  of  those  fine  eyes  which  Maisie 
already  admired.  Moddle  had  become,  at 
this  time,  after  alterations  of  residence  of 
which  the  child  had  no  clear  record,  an 
image  faintly  embalmed  in  the  remembrance 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        19 

of  hungry  disappearances  from  the  nursery 
and  distressful  lapses  in  the  alphabet,  sad 
embarrassments,  in  particular,  when  invited 
to  recognize  something  that  her  nurse  called 
"the  important  letter  haitch."  Miss  Over- 
more,  however  hungry,  never  disappeared; 
this  marked  her  somehow  as  a  being  more 
exalted,  and  the  character  was  confirmed  by 
a  prettiness  that  Maisie  supposed  to  be 
extraordinary.  Mrs.  Farange  had  said  that 
she  was  almost  too  pretty,  and  some  one  had 
asked  what  that  mattered  so  long  as  Beale 
wasn't  there.  "Beale  or  no  Beale,"  Maisie 
had  heard  her  mother  say  in  reply,  "  I  take 
her  because  she  's  a  lady  and  yet  awfully  poor. 
Rather  nice  people,  but  there  are  seven  sis- 
ters at  home.  What  do  people  mean?  " 

Maisie  did  n't  know  what  people  meant, 
but  she  knew  very  soon  all  the  names  of  all 
the  sisters.  She  could  say  them  off  better 
than  she  could  say  the  multiplication-table. 
She  privately  wondered,  moreover,  though 
she  never  asked,  about  the  awful  poverty,  of 
which  her  companion  also  never  spoke. 
Food,  at  any  rate,  came  up  by  mysterious 
laws.  Miss  Overmore  never,  like  Moddle, 
had  on  an  apron,  and  when  she  ate  she  held 
her  fork  with  her  little  finger  curled  out. 


20        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

The  child,  who  watched  her  at  many  mo- 
ments, watched  her  particularly  at  that  one. 
"I  think 'you 're  lovely,"  she  often  said  to 
her.  Even  mamma,  who  was  lovely  too, 
had  not  such  a  pretty  way  with  the  fork. 
Maisie  associated  this  showier  presence  with 
her  now  being  "big,"  knowing  of  course 
that  nursery-governesses  were  only  for  little 
girls  who  were  not,  as  she  said,  "  really  " 
little.  She  vaguely  knew,  further,  some- 
how, that  the  future  was  still  bigger  than 
she,  and  that  a  part  of  what  made  it  so  was 
the  number  of  governesses  lurking  in  it  and 
ready  to  dart  out.  Everything  that  had  hap- 
pened when  she  was  really  little  was  dormant, 
everything  but  the  positive  certitude,  be- 
queathed from  afar  by  Moddle,  that  the 
natural  way  for  a  child  to  have  her  parents 
was  separate  and  successive,  like  her  mutton 
and  her  pudding  or  her  bath  and  her  nap. 

"Does  he  know  that  he  lies?"  that  was 
what  she  had  vivaciously  asked  Miss  Over- 
more  on  the  occasion  which  was  so  suddenly 
to  lead  to  a  change  in  her  life. 

"  Does  who  know  —  ?  "  Miss  Overmore 
stared:  she  had  a  stocking  pulled  over  her 
hand  and  was  pricking  at  it  with  a  needle 
which  she  poised  in  the  act.  Her  task  was 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        21 

homely,  but  her  movement,  like  all  her 
movements,  graceful. 

"Why,  papa." 

"That  he  Mies'—  ?" 

"That's  what  mamma  says  I  am  to  tell 
him  —  that  he  lies  and  he  knows  he  lies." 
Miss  Overmore  turned  very  red,  though  she 
laughed  out  till  her  head  fell  back ;  then  she 
pricked  again  at  her  muffled  hand  so  hard 
that  Maisie  wondered  how  she  could  bear  it. 
"Am  I  to  tell  him?  "  the  child  went  on.  It 
was  then  that  her  companion  addressed  her 
in  the  unmistakable  language  of  a  pair  of 
eyes  of  deep  dark  gray.  "I  can't  say  no," 
they  replied  as  distinctly  as  possible.  "I 
can't  say  no,  because  I  'm  afraid  of  your 
mamma,  don't  you  see?  Yet  how  can  I  say 
yes  after  your  papa  has  been  so  kind  to  me, 
talking  to  me  so  long  the  other  day,  smiling 
and  flashing  his  beautiful  teeth  at  me  the 
time  we  met  him  in  the  Park,  the  time  when, 
rejoicing  at  the  sight  of  us,  he  left  the 
gentleman  he  was  with  and  turned  and 
walked  with  us,  stayed  with  us  for  half  an 
hour?  "  Somehow,  in  the  light  of  Miss  Over- 
more' s  lovely  eyes,  that  incident  came  back 
to  Maisie  with  a  charm  it  had  not  had  at  the 
time,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  after 


22        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

it  was  over  her  governess  had  never  but  once 
alluded  to  it.  On  their  way  home,  when 
papa  had  quitted  them,  she  had  expressed 
the  hope  that  the  child  wouldn't  mention  it 
to  mamma.  Maisie  liked  her  so,  and  had 
so  the  charmed  sense  of  being  liked  by 
her,  that  she  accepted  this  remark  as  settling 
the  matter  and  wonderingly  conformed  to  it. 
The  wonder  now  lived  again,  lived  in  the 
recollection  of  what  papa  had  said  to  Miss 
Overmore.  "  I  've  only  to  look  at  you  to 
see  that  you  're  a  person  to  whom  I  can 
appeal  to  help  me  to  save  my  daughter." 
Maisie's  ignorance  of  what  she  was  to  be 
saved  from  didn't  diminish  the  pleasure  of 
the  thought  that  Miss  Overmore  was  saving 
her.  It  seemed  to  make  them  cling  together. 


Ill 


SHE  was  therefore  all  the  more  startled 
when  her  mother  said  to  her  in  connection 
with  something  to  be  done  before  her  next 
migration:  "You  understand,  of  course, 
that  she's  not  going  with  you." 

Maisie  turned  quite  faint.    "  Oh,  I  thought 
she  was ! " 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 


23 


"It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,  you  know, 
what  you  think!"  Mrs.  Farange  loudly 
replied;  "and  you  had  better,  indeed,  for 
the  future,  miss,  learn  to  keep  your  thoughts 
to  yourself ! " 

This  was  exactly  what  Maisie  had  already 
learned,  and  the  accomplishment  was  just  the 
source  of  her  mother's  irritation.  It  was  of 
a  horrid  little  critical  system,  a  tendency, 
in  her  silence,  to  judge  her  elders  that  this 
lady  suspected  her,  liking,  as  she  did,  for 
her  own  part,  a  child  to  be  simple  and  con- 
fiding. She  liked  also  to  hear  the  report  of 
the  whacks  she  administered  to  Mr.  Farange's 
character,  to  his  pretensions  to  peace  of 
mind ;  the  satisfaction  of  dealing  them  dimin- 
ished when  nothing  came  back.  The  day 
was  at  hand,  and  she  felt  it,  when  she  should 
feel  more  delight  in  hurling  Maisie  at  him 
than  in  snatching  her  away ;  so  much  so  that 
her  conscience  winced  under  the  acuteness 
of  a  candid  friend  who  had  remarked  that  the 
real  end  of  all  their  tugging  would  be  that 
each  parent  would  try  to  make  the  little  girl 
a  burden  to  the  other  —  a  sort  of  game  in 
which  a  fond  mother  clearly  wouldn't  show 
to  advantage.  The  prospect  of  not  showing 
to  advantage,  a  distinction  in  which  she  held 


24        WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

that  she  had  never  failed,  begot  in  Ida 
Farange  an  ill-humor  of  which  several 
persons  felt  the  effect.  She  determined  that 
Beale,  at  any  rate,  should  feel  it.  She 
reflected  afresh  that  in  the  study  of  how  to 
be  odious  to  him  she  must  never  give  way. 
Nothing  could  incommode  him  more  than 
not  to  get  the  good,  for  the  child,  of  a  nice 
female  appendage  who  had  clearly  taken  a 
fancy  to  her.  One  of  the  things  Ida  said  to 
the  appendage  was  that  Beale' s  was  a  house 
in  which  no  decent  woman  could  consent  to 
be  seen.  It  was  Miss  Overmore  herself  who 
explained  to  Maisie  that  she  had  a  hope  of 
being  allowed  to  accompany  her  to  her 
father's  and  that  this  hope  had  been  dashed 
by  the  way  her  mother  took  it.  "  She  says 
if  I  ever  do  such  a  thing  as  enter  his  service 
I  must  never,  in  this  house,  expect  to  show 
my  face  again.  So  I  've  promised  not  to 
attempt  to  go  with  you.  If  I  wait  patiently 
till  you  come  back  here  we  shall  certainly 
be  together  again." 

Waiting  patiently,  and  above  all  waiting 
till  she  should  come  back  there,  seemed  to 
Maisie  a  long  way  round.  It  reminded  her 
of  all  the  things  she  had  been  told,  first  and 
last,  that  she  should  have  if  she  would  be 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        25 

good  and  that  in  spite  of  her  goodness  she 
had  never  had  at  all.  "  Then  who  will  take 
care  of  me  at  papa's  ?  " 

"  Heaven  only  knows,  my  own  precious  ! " 
Miss  Overmore  replied,  tenderly  embracing 
her.  There  was  indeed  no  doubt  that  she 
was  dear  to  this  beautiful  friend.  What 
could  have  proved  it  better  than  the  fact  that 
before  a  week  was  out,  notwithstanding  their 
sharp  separation  and  her  mother's  prohi- 
bition and  Miss  Overmore's  scruples  and 
Miss  Overmore's  promise,  the  beautiful 
friend  had  turned  up  at  her  father's?  The 
little  lady  already  engaged  to  come  there  by 
the  hour,  a  fat,  dark  little  lady  with  a 
foreign  name  and  dirty  fingers,  who  wore, 
throughout,  a  bonnet  that  had  at  first  given 
her  a  deceptive  air  of  not  staying  long,  besides 
asking  her  pupil  questions  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  lessons,  questions  that  Beale 
Farange  himself,  when  two  or  three  were 
repeated  to  him,  admitted  to  be  awfully 
vulgar  —  this  strange  apparition  faded  before 
the  bright  creature  who  had  braved  every- 
thing for  Maisie's  sake.  The  bright  creature 
told  her  little  charge  frankly  what  had  hap- 
pened —  that  she  had  really  been  unable  to 
hold  out.  She  had  broken  her  vow  to  Mrs. 


26        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Farange.  She  had  struggled  for  three  days, 
then  she  had  come  straight  to  Maisie's  papa 
and  told  him  the  simple  truth.  She  adored 
his  daughter;  she  couldn't  give  her  up;  she 
would  make  any  sacrifice  for  her.  On  this 
basis  it  had  been  arranged  that  she  should 
stay;  her  courage  had  been  rewarded;  she 
left  Maisie  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  amount  of 
courage  she  had  required.  Some  of  the 
things  she  said  made  a  particular  impression 
on  the  child  —  her  declaration,  for  instance, 
that  when  her  pupil  should  get  older  she 
would  understand  better  just  how  "dread- 
fully bold  "  a  young  lady,  to  do  exactly  what 
she  had  done,  had  to  be. 

"Fortunately  your  papa  appreciates  it; 
he  appreciates  it  immensely  "  —  that  was  one 
of  the  things  Miss  Overmore  also  said,  with 
a  striking  insistence  on  the  adverb.  Maisie 
herself  was  no  less  impressed  with  what  her 
friend  had  gone  through,  especially  after 
hearing  of  the  terrible  letter  that  had  come 
from  Mrs.  Farange.  Mamma  had  been  so 
angry  that,  in  Miss  Overmore' s  own  words, 
she  had  loaded  her  with  insult  —  proof 
enough  indeed  that  they  must  never  look 
forward  to  being  together  again  under 
mamma's  roof.  Mamma's  roof,  however, 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW        27 

had  its  turn,  this  time,  for  the  child,  of 
appearing  but  remotely  contingent ;  so  that, 
to  reassure  her,  there  was  scarce  a  need  of 
her  companion's  secret,  solemnly  confided 
—  the  idea  that  there  should  be  no  going 
back  to  mamma  at  all.  It  was  Miss  Over- 
more' s  private  conviction,  and  apart  of  the 
same  communication,  that  if  Mr.  Farange's 
daughter  would  only  show  a  really  marked 
preference  she  would  be  backed  up  by 
"public  opinion"  in  holding  on  to  him. 
Poor  Maisie  could  scarcely  grasp  that  incen- 
tive, but  she  could  surrender  herself  to  the 
day.  She  had  conceived  her  first  passion, 
and  the  object  of  it  was  her  governess.  It 
had  not  been  put  to  her,  and  she  could  n't 
or  at  any  rate  she  didn't  put  it  to  herself, 
that  she  liked  Miss  Overmore  better  than 
she  liked  papa;  but  it  would  have  sustained 
her  under  such  an  imputation  to  feel  herself 
able  to  reply  that  papa  too  liked  Miss  Over- 
more  exactly  as  much.  He  had  particularly 
told  her  so.  Besides  she  could  easily  see  it. 


28        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


IV 


ALL  this  led  her  on ;  but  it  brought  on  her 
fate  as  well,  the  day  when  her  mother  would 
be  at  the  door  in  the  carriage  in  which 
Maisie  now  rode  on  no  occasions  but  these. 
There  was  no  question  at  present  of  Miss 
Overmore's  going  back  with  her;  it  was 
universally  recognized  that  the  quarrel  with 
Mrs.  Farange  was  much  too  acute.  The 
child  felt  it  from  the  first.  There  was  no 
hugging  or  exclaiming  as  that  lady  drove 
her  away;  there  was  only  a  frightening 
silence,  unenlivened  even  by  the  invidious 
inquiries  of  former  years,  which  culminated, 
according  to  its  stern  nature,  in  a  still  more 
frightening  old  woman,  a  figure  awaiting  her 
on  the  very  doorstep.  "  You  're  to  be  under 
this  lady's  care,"  said  her  mother.  "Take 
her,  Mrs.  Wix!"  she  added,  addressing  the 
figure  impatiently  and  giving  the  child  a 
push  in  which  Maisie  felt  that  she  wished 
to  set  Mrs.  Wix  an  example  of  energy. 
Mrs.  Wix  took  her,  and  Maisie  felt  the  next 
day  that  she  would  never  let  her  go.  She 
had  struck  her  at  first,  just  after  Miss  Over- 
more,  as  terrible;  but  something  in  her 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        29 

voice,  at  the  end  of  an  hour,  touched  the 
little  girl  in  a  spot  that  had  never  even  been 
reached.  Maisie  knew  later  what  it  was, 
though  doubtless  she  could  n't  have  made  a 
statement  of  it.  These  were  things  that  a 
few  days'  conversation  with  Mrs.  Wix  lighted 
up.  The  principal  one  was  a  matter  that 
Mrs.  Wix  herself  always  immediately  men- 
tioned; she  had  had  a  little  girl  quite  of 
her  own,  and  the  little  girl  had  been  killed 
on  the  spot.  She  had  had  absolutely  nothing 
else  in  all  the  world,  and  her  affliction  had 
broken  her  heart.  It  was  comfortably  estab- 
lished between  them  that  Mrs.  Wix's  heart 
was  broken.  What  Maisie  felt  was  that  she 
had  been,  with  passion  and  anguish,  a 
mother;  and  that  this  was  something  Miss 
Overmore  was  n't ;  something  strangely,  con- 
fusingly,  that  mamma  was  even  less. 

So  it  was  that,  in  the  course  of  an  extra- 
ordinarily short  time,  she  found  herself  more 
deeply  absorbed  in  the  image  of  the  little 
dead  Clara  Matilda,  who,  on  a  crossing  in 
the  Harrow  Road,  had  been  knocked  down 
and  crushed  by  the  cruellest  of  hansoms, 
than  she  had  ever  found  herself  in  the  family 
group  made  vivid  by  one  of  seven.  "She  's 
your  little  dead  sister,"  Mrs.  Wix  ended  by 


3o        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

saying,  and  Maisie,  all  in  a  tremor  of  curios- 
ity and  compassion,  addressed  from  that 
moment  a  particular  piety  to  the  small  in- 
fectious sentiment.  Somehow  she  wasn't  a 
real  sister,  but  that  only  made  her  the  more 
romantic/  It  contributed  to  this  view  of  her 
that  she  was  never  to  be  spoken  of  in  that 
character  to  any  one  else  —  least  of  all  to 
Mrs.  Farange,  who  wouldn't  care  for  her 
nor  recognize  the  relationship.  It  was  to 
be  just  an  unutterable  and  inexhaustible 
little  secret  with  Mrs.  Wix.  Maisie  knew 
everything  about  her  that  could  be  known, 
everything  she  had  said  or  done  in  her  little 
mutilated  life,  exactly  how  lovely  she  was, 
exactly  how  her  hair  was  curled  and  her 
frocks  were  trimmed.  Her  hair  came  down 
far  below  her  waist;  it  was  of  the  most  won- 
derful gold  brightness,  just  as  Mrs.  Wix's 
own  had  been  a  long  time  before.  Mrs. 
Wix's  own  was  indeed  very  remarkable  still, 
and  Maisie  had  felt  at  first  that  she  should 
never  get  on  with  it.  It  played  a  large  part 
in  the  sad  and  strange  appearance,  the  air 
as  of  a  greasy  grayness,  which  Mrs.  Wix 
had  presented  on  the  child's  arrival.  It  had 
originally  been  yellow,  but  time  had  turned 
its  glow  to  ashes,  to  a  turbid,  sallow,  unven- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


31 


erable  white.  Still  excessively  abundant, 
it  was  dressed  in  a  manner  of  which  the 
poor  lady  appeared  not  yet  to  have  recognized 
the  supersession,  with  a  glossy  braid,  like  a 
large  diadem,  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and 
behind,  at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  a  dingy 
rosette  like  a  large  button.  She  wore 
glasses  which,  in  humble  reference  to  a 
divergent  obliquity  of  vision,  she  called  her 
straighteners,  and  a  little  ugly  snuff-colored 
dress,  trimmed  with  satin  bands  in  the  form 
of  scallops  and  glazed  with  antiquity.  The 
straighteners,  she  explained  to  Maisie,  were 
put  on  for  the  sake  of  others,  whom,  as  she 
believed,  they  helped  to  recognize  the  direc- 
tion, otherwise  misleading,  of  her  glance. 
The  rest  of  the  melancholy  attire  could  only 
have  been  put  on  for  herself.  With  the 
added  suggestion  of  her  goggles  it  reminded 
her  pupil  of  the  polished  shell  or  corselet  of 
a  horrid  beetle.  At  first  she  had  looked 
cross  and  almost  cruel ;  but  this  impression 
passed  away  with  the  child's  increased  per- 
ception of  her  being,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  a  figure  mainly  for  laughter.  She 
was  passively  comical  —  a  person  whom 
people,  to  make  talk  lively,  described  to 
each  other  and  imitated.  Every  one  knew 


32        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

the  straighteners ;  every  one  knew  the  dia- 
dem and  the  button,  the  scallops  and  satin 
bands;  everyone,  though  Maisie  had  never 
betrayed  her,  knew  even  Clara  Matilda. 

It  was  on  account  of  these  things  that 
mamma  got  her  for  so  little  money,  really 
for  nothing.  So  much,  one  day  when  Mrs. 
Wix  had  accompanied  her  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  left  her,  the  child  heard  one  of  the 
ladies  she  found  there  —  a  lady  with  eye- 
brows arched  like  skipping-ropes  and  thick 
black  stitching,  like  ruled  "lines,"  on  beau- 
tiful white  gloves  —  announce  to  another. 
She  knew  governesses  were  poor;  Miss  Over- 
more  was  unmentionably  and  Mrs.  Wix  fa- 
miliarly so.  Neither  this,  however,  nor  the 
old  brown  frock,  nor  the  diadem,  nor  the 
button,  made  a  difference  for  Maisie  in 
the  charm  put  forth  through  everything,  the 
charm  of  Mrs.  Wix's  conveying  that  some- 
how, in  her  ugliness  and  her  poverty,  she  was 
peculiarly  and  soothingly  safe,  safer  than 
any  one  in  the  world  —  than  papa,  than 
mamma,  than  the  lady  with  the  arched 
eyebrows,  safer  even,  though  much  less 
beautiful,  than  Miss  Overmore,  on  whose 
loveliness,  as  she  supposed  it,  the  little  girl 
was  faintly  conscious  that  one  could  n't  rest 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


33 


with  quite  the  same  tucked-in  and  kissed- 
for-good-night  feeling.  Mrs.  Wix  was  as 
safe  as  Clara  Matilda,  who  was  in  heaven, 
and  yet,  embarrassingly,  also  in  Kensal 
Green,  where  they  had  been  together  to  see 
her  little  huddled  grave.  It  was  from  some- 
thing in  Mrs.  Wix's  tone,  which,  in  spite  of 
caricature,  remained  indescribable  and  inimi- 
table, that  Maisie,  before  her  term  with  her 
mother  was  over,  drew  this  sense  of  a  tender- 
ness that  would  never  fail  her.  If  she  knew 
her  instructress  was  poor  and  queer  she  also 
knew  that  she  was  not  nearly  so  "qualified" 
as  Miss  Overmore,  who  could  say  lots  of 
dates  straight  off  (letting  you  hold  the  book 
yourself),  state  the  position  of  Malabar,  play 
six  pieces  without  notes,  and,  in  a  sketch, 
put  in  beautifully  the  trees  and  houses  and 
difficult  parts.  Maisie  herself  could  play 
more  pieces  than  Mrs.  Wix,  who  was  more- 
over visibly  ashamed  of  her  houses  and  trees 
and  could  only,  with  the  help  of  a  smutty 
forefinger,  of  doubtful  legitimacy  in  the 
field  of  art,  do  the  smoke  coming  out  of  the 
chimneys. 

They  dealt,  the  governess  and  her  pupil, 
in   "subjects;"    but   there   were   many   the 
governess  put  off  from  week   to  week  and 
3 


34        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

that  they  never  got  to  at  all ;  she  only  used 
to  say  "We  '11  take  that  in  its  proper  order." 
Her  order  was  a  circle  as  vast  as  the  untrav- 
elled  globe.  She  had  not  the  spirit  of 
adventure,  and  the  child  could  perfectly  see 
how  many  subjects  she  was  afraid  of.  She 
took  refuge  on  the  firm  ground  of  fiction, 
through  which,  indeed,  there  flowed  the  blue 
river  of  truth.  She  knew  swarms  of  stories, 
mostly  those  of  the  novels  she  had  read, 
relating  them  with  a  memory  that  never 
faltered  and  a  wealth  of  detail  that  was 
Maisie's  delight.  They  were  all  about  love 
and  beauty  and  countesses  and  wickedness. 
Her  conversation  was  practically  an  end- 
less narrative,  a  great  garden  of  romance, 
with  sudden  vistas  into  her  own  life  and 
gushing  fountains  of  fact.  These  were  the 
parts  where  they  most  lingered.  She  made 
the  child  take  with  her  again  every  step  of 
her  long,  lame  course  and  think  it  a  journey 
in  an  enchanted  land.  Her  pupil  acquired 
a  vivid  vision  of  every  one  who  had  ever,  in 
her  phrase,  knocked  against  her  —  some  of 
them  oh  so  hard! — every  one  literally  but 
Mr.  Wix,  her  husband,  as  to  whom  nothing 
was  mentioned  save  that  he  had  been  dead 
for  ages.  He  had  been  rather  remarkably 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       35 

absent  from  his  wife's  existence,  and  Maisie 
was  never  taken  to  see  his  grave. 


THE  second  parting  from  Miss  Overmore 
had  been  bad  enough,  but  this  first  parting 
from  Mrs.  Wix  was  much  worse.  The  child 
had  lately  been  to  the  dentist's;  she  had  a 
term  of  comparison  for  the  screwed-up 
intensity  of  the  scene.  It  was  dreadfully 
silent,  as  it  had  been  when  her  tooth  was 
taken  out.  Mrs.  Wix  had  on  that  occasion 
grabbed  her  hand,  and  they  had  clung  to 
each  other  with  the  frenzy  of  their  determi- 
nation not  to  scream.  Maisie,  at  the 
dentist's,  had  been  heroically  still,  but  just 
when  she  felt  most  anguish  had  become 
aware,  on  the  part  of  her  companion,  of  an 
audible  shriek,  a  spasm  of  stifled  sympathy. 
This  was  reproduced  by  the  only  sound  that 
broke  their  supreme  embrace  when,  a  month 
later,  the  "arrangement,"  as  her  periodical 
up-rootings  were  called,  played  the  part  of 
the  horrible  forceps.  Embedded  in  Mrs. 
Wix's  clasp  as  her  tooth  had  been  sunk  in 
her  gum,  the  operation  of  extracting  her 


36        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

would  really  have  been  a  case  for  chloroform. 
It  was  a  hug  that  fortunately  left  nothing  to 
say,  for  the  poor  woman's  want  of  words,  at 
such  an  hour,  seemed  to  fall  in  with  her 
want  of  everything.  Maisie's  alternate 
parent,  in  the  outermost  vestibule  —  he  liked 
the  impertinence  of  crossing  as  much  as  that 
of  his  late  wife's  threshold — stood  over 
them  with  his  open  watch  and  his  still  more 
open  grin,  while  from  the  only  corner  of  an 
eye  on  which  something  of  Mrs.  Wix's  did  n't 
impinge  the  child  saw  at  the  door  a  brougham 
in  which  Miss  Overmore  also  waited.  She 
remembered  the  difference  when,  six  months 
before,  she  had  been  torn  from  the  breast  of 
that  more  spirited  protectress.  Miss  Over- 
more,  then  also  in  the  vestibule,  but  of 
course  in  the  other  one,  had  been  thoroughly 
audible  and  voluble.  Her  protest  had  rung 
out  bravely,  and  she  had  declared  that  some- 
thing—  her  pupil  didn't  know  exactly  what 

—  was  a  regular  wicked  shame.     That  had 
at  the  time  dimly  recalled   to  Maisie  the 
far-away  moment  of  Moddle's  great  outbreak 

—  there  seemed  always  to  be  "shame  "  con- 
nected in  one  way  or  another  with  her  migra- 
tions.    At  present,  while  Mrs.   Wix's  arms 
tightened   and   the   smell   of   her  hair  was 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        37 

strong,  she  further  remembered  how,  in 
pacifying  Miss  Overmore,  papa  had  made 
use  of  the  words,  "you  dear  old  duck"  —  an 
expression  which,  by  its  oddity,  had  stuck 
fast  in  her  young  mind,  having  moreover  a 
place  well  prepared  for  it  there  by  what  she 
knew  of  the  governess  whom  she  now  always 
mentally  characterized  as  the  pretty  one. 
She  wondered  whether  this  affection  would 
be  as  great  as  before;  that  would  at  all 
events  be  the  case  with  the  prettiness. 
Maisie  could  see  it  in  the  face  which  showed 
brightly  at  the  window  of  the  brougham. 

The  brougham  was  a  token  of  harmony, 
of  the  fine  conditions  papa  this  time  would 
offer.  He  had  usually  come  for  her  in  a 
hansom  with  a  four-wheeler  behind  for  the 
boxes.  The  four-wheeler  with  the  boxes  on 
it  was  actually  there;  but  mamma  was  the 
only  lady  with  whom  she  had  ever  been  in  a 
conveyance  of  the  kind  always,  of  old, 
spoken  of  by  Moddle  as  a  private  carriage. 
Papa's  carriage  was,  now  that  he  had  one, 
still  more  private  somehow  than  mamma's; 
and  when  at  last  she  found  herself  quite  on 
top,  as  she  felt,  of  its  inmates  and  gloriously 
rolling  away  she  put  to  Miss  Overmore, 
after  another  immense  and  more  talkative 


38        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

squeeze,  a  question  of  which  the  motive  was 
a  desire  for  information  as  to  the  continuity 
of  a  certain  sentiment.  "  Did  papa  like  you 
just  the  same  while  I  was  gone  ? "  she 
inquired,  full  of  the  sense  of  how  markedly 
his  favor  had  been  established  in  her  pres- 
ence. She  had  bethought  herself  that  this 
favor  might,  like  her  presence,  and  as  if 
depending  on  it,  be  only  intermittent  and 
for  the  season.  Papa,  on  whose  knee  she 
sat,  burst  into  one  of  those  loud  laughs  of 
his  that,  however  prepared  she  was,  seemed 
always,  like  some  trick  in  a  frightening 
game,  to  leap  forth  to  make  her  jump; 
then,  before  Miss  Overmore  could  speak,  he 
replied:  "Why,  you  little  donkey,  when 
you  're  away  what  have  I  left  to  do  but  just 
to  love  her?"  Miss  Overmore  hereupon 
immediately  took  her  from  him,  and  they 
had,  over  her,  an  hilarious  little  scrimmage 
of  which  Maisie  caught  the  surprised  obser- 
vation in  the  white  stare  of  an  old  lady  who 
passed  in  a  victoria.  Then  her  beautiful 
friend  remarked  to  her  very  gravely :  "  I 
shall  make  him  understand  that  if  he  ever 
again  says  anything  as  horrid  as  that  to  you 
I  shall  carry  you  straight  off  and  we'll  go 
and  live  somewhere  together  and  be  good 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 


39 


quiet  little  girls. "  The  child  could  n't  quite 
make  out  why  her  father's  speech  had  been 
horrid,  since  it  only  expressed  that  apprecia- 
tion which  their  companion  herself,  of  old, 
described  as  "immense."  To  enter  more 
into  the  truth  of  the  matter  she  appealed  to 
him  again  directly,  asked  if  in  all  these 
months  Miss  Overmore  had  n't  been  with 
him  just  as  she  had  been  before  and  just  as 
she  would  be  now.  "  Of  course  she  has,  old 
girl,  where  else  could  the  poor  dear  be  ? " 
cried  Beale  Farange,  to  the  still  greater 
scandal  of  their  companion,  who  protested 
that  unless  he  straightway  "took  back"  his 
nasty,  wicked  fib,  it  would  be,  this  time,  not 
only  him  she  would  leave,  but  his  child,  too, 
and  his  house  and  his  tiresome  troubles  — 
all  the  impossible  things  he  had  succeeded 
in  putting  on  her.  Beale,  under  this  frolic 
menace,  took  nothing  back  at  all.  He  was 
indeed  apparently  on  the  point  of  repeating 
his  assertion,  but  Miss  Overmore  instructed 
her  little  charge  that  she  was  not  to  listen 
to  his  bad  jokes.  She  was  to  understand 
that  a  lady  could  n't  stay  with  a  gentleman 
that  way  without  some  awfully  proper  reason. 
Maisie  looked  from  one  of  her  companions 
to  the  other;  this  was  the  freshest,  mer- 


40        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

riest  start  she  had  yet  enjoyed,  but  she  had 
a  shy  fear  of  not  exactly  believing  them. 
"  Well,  what  reason  is  proper  ?  "  she  thought- 
fully demanded. 

"Oh,  a  long-legged  stick  of  a  tomboy; 
there  's  none  so  good  as  that ! "  Her  father 
enjoyed  both  her  drollery  and  his  own,  and 
tried  again  to  get  possession  of  her  —  an 
effort  resisted  by  the  third  person  and  lead- 
ing again  to  something  of  a  public  scuffle. 
Miss  Overmore  declared  to  the  child  that 
she  had  been  all  the  while  with  good  friends, 
on  which  Beale  Farange  went  on :  "  She 
means  good  friends  of  mine,  you  know  — 
tremendous  friends  of  mine.  There  has  been 
no  end  of  them  about  —  that  I  will  say  for 
her ! "  The  child  felt  bewildered  and  was 
afterwards  for  some  time  conscious  of  a 
vagueness,  just  slightly  embarrassing,  as  to 
the  subject  of  so  much  amusement  and  as 
to  where  her  governess  had  really  been.  She 
did  n't  feel  at  all  as  if  she  had  been  seriously 
told,  and  no  such  feeling  was  supplied  by 
anything  that  occurred  later.  Her  embar- 
rassment, of  a  precocious,  instinctive  order, 
attached  itself  to  the  idea  that  this  was 
another  of  the  matters  that  it  was  not  for 
her,  as  her  mother  used  to  say,  to  go  into. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        41 

Therefore,  under  her  father's  roof,  during 
the  time  that  followed,  she  made  no  attempt 
to  clear  up  her  ambiguity  by  a  sociable  inter- 
rogation of  housemaids ;  and  it  was  an  odd 
truth  that  the  ambiguity  itself  took  nothing 
from  the  fresh  pleasure  promised  her  by 
renewed  contact  with  Miss  Overmore.  The 
confidence  looked  for  by  that  young  lady  was 
of  the  fine  sort  that  explanation  cannot 
improve,  and  she  herself,  at  any  rate,  was 
a  person  superior  to  all  confusion.  For 
Maisie,  moreover,  concealment  had  never 
necessarily  seemed  deception,  and  she  had 
grown  up  among  things  as  to  which  her 
former  knowledge  was  that  she  was  not  to 
ask  about  them.  It  was  far  from  new  to  her 
that  the  questions  of  the  small  are  the  pecu- 
liar diversion  of  the  great.  Except  the  affairs 
of  her  doll  Lisette,  there  had  scarcely  ever 
been  anything  at  her  mother's  that  was 
explicable  with  a  grave  face.  Nothing  was 
so  easy  to  her  as  to  send  the  ladies  who 
gathered  there  off  into  shrieks,  and  she 
might  have  practised  upon  them  largely  if 
she  had  been  of  a  more  calculating  turn. 
Everything  had  something  behind  it.  Life 
was  like  a  long,  long  corridor  with  rows  of 
closed  doors.  She  had  learned  that  at  these 


42        WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

doors  it  was  wise  not  to  knock  —  that  seemed 
to  produce,  from  within,  such  sounds  of 
derision.  Little  by  little,  however,  she 
understood  more,  for  it  befell  that  she  was 
enlightened  by  Lisette's  questions,  which 
reproduced  the  effect  of  her  own  upon  those 
for  whom  she  sat  in  the  very  darkness  of 
Lisette.  Was  she  not  herself  convulsed  by 
such  innocence  ?  In  the  presence  of  it  she 
often  imitated  the  shrieking  ladies.  There 
were  at  any  rate  things  she  really  could  n't 
tell  even  a  French  doll.  She  could  only 
pass  on  her  lessons  and  study  to  produce  on 
Lisette  the  impression  of  having  mysteries 
in  her  life,  wondering  the  while  whether  she 
succeeded  in  the  air  of  shading  off,  like  her 
mother,  into  the  unknowable.  When  the 
reign  of  Miss  Overmore  followed  that  of 
Mrs.  Wix  she  took  a  fresh  cue,  emulating 
her  governess  and  bridging  over  the  interval 
with  the  simple  expectation  of  trust.  Yes, 
there  were  matters  one  couldn't  go  into  with 
a  pupil.  There  were,  for  instance,  days 
when,  after  prolonged  absence,  Lisette, 
while  she  took  off  her  things,  tried  hard  to 
discover  where  she  had  been.  Well,  she 
discovered  a  little,  but  she  never  discovered 
all.  There  was  an  occasion  when,  on  her 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        43 

being  particularly  indiscreet,  Maisie  replied 
to  her  —  and  precisely  about  the  motive  of  a 
disappearance  —  as  she,  Maisie,  had  once 
been  replied  to  by  Mrs.  Farange,  "  Find  out 
for  yourself!"  She  mimicked  her  mother's 
sharpness,  but  she  was  rather  ashamed  after- 
wards, though  as  to  whether  of  the  sharpness 
or  of  the  mimicry  was  not  quite  clear. 


VI 


SHE  became  aware  in  time  that  this  would 
be  a  period  not  remarkable  for  lessons, 
the  care  of  her  education  being  now  only 
one  of  the  many  duties  devolving  on  Miss 
Overmore;  a  circumstance  as  to  which  she 
was  present  at  various  passages  between  that 
lady  and  her  father  —  passages  significant, 
on  either  side,  of  dissent  and  even  of  dis- 
pleasure. It  was  gathered  by  the  child  on 
these  occasions  that  there  was  something  in 
the  situation  for  which  her  mother  might 
"  come  down "  on  them  all,  though  indeed 
the  suggestion,  always  thrown  out  by  her 
father,  was  greeted  on  his  companion's  part 
with  particular  derision.  Such  scenes  were 
usually  brought  to  a  climax  by  Miss  Over- 


44        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

more's  demanding,  in  a  harsher  manner  than 
she  applied  to  any  other  subject,  in  what 
position  under  the  sun  such  a  person  as  Mrs. 
Farange  would  find  herself  for  coming  down. 
As  the  months  went  on  the  little  girl's 
interpretations  thickened,  and  the  more 
effectually  that  this  period  was  the  longest 
she  had  yet  known  without  a  break.  She 
became  familiar  with  the  idea  that  her 
mother,  for  some  reason,  was  in  no  hurry  to 
reinstate  her.  That  idea  was  forcibly  ex- 
pressed by  her  father  whenever  Miss  Over- 
more,  differing  and  decided,  took  him  up  on 
the  question,  which  he  was  always  putting 
forward,  of  the  urgency  of  sending  her  to 
school.  For  a  governess  Miss  Overmore 
differed  surprisingly ;  far  more,  for  instance, 
than  would  ever  have  entered  into  the  head 
of  poor  Mrs.  Wix.  She  remarked  to  Maisie 
many  times  that  she  was  quite  conscious  of 
not  doing  her  justice  and  that  Mr.  Farange 
equally  measured  and  equally  lamented  this 
deficiency.  The  reason  of  it  was  that  she 
had  mysterious  responsibilities  that  inter- 
fered—  responsibilities,  Miss  Overmore  in- 
timated, to  Mr.  Farange  himself  and  to 
the  friendly,  noisy  little  house  and  those 
who  came  there.  Mr.  Farange' s  remedy  for 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


45 


every  inconvenience  was  that  the  child 
should  be  put  to  school  —  there  were  such 
lots  of  splendid  schools,  as  everybody  knew, 
at  Brighton  and  all  over  the  place.  That, 
however,  Maisie  learned,  was  just  what  would 
bring  her  mother  down;  from  the  moment 
he  should  delegate  to  others  the  housing  of 
his  little  charge  he  had  n't  a  leg  to  stand  on 
before  the  law.  Did  n't  he  keep  her  away 
from  her  mother  precisely  because  Mrs. 
Farange  was  one  of  those  others? 

There  was  also  the  solution  of  a  second 
governess,  a  young  person  to  come  in  by 
the  day  and  really  do  the  work ;  but  to  this 
Miss  Overmore  would  n't  for  a  moment  lis- 
ten, arguing  against  it  with  great  public  rel- 
ish and  wanting  to  know  from  all  comers 
—  she  put  it  to  Maisie  herself — if  they 
didn't  see  how  frightfully  it  would  give  her 
away.  "  What  am  I  supposed  to  be  at  all, 
don't  you  see,  if  I  'm  not  here  to  look  after 
her?"  She  was  in  a  false  position,  and  so 
freely  and  loudly  called  attention  to  it  that 
it  seemed  to  become  almost  a  source  of 
glory.  The  way  out  of  it,  of  course,  was 
just  to  do  her  plain  duty;  but  that  was  un- 
fortunately what,  with  his  excessive,  his 
exorbitant  demands  on  her,  which  every  one 


46        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

indeed  appeared  quite  to  understand,  he 
practically,  he  selfishly  prevented.  Beale 
Farange,  for  Miss  Overmore,  was  now  never 
anything  but  "  he ; "  and  the  house  was  as 
full  as  ever  of  lively  gentlemen  with  whom, 
under  that  designation,  she  chaffingly  talked 
about  him.  Maisie  meanwhile,  as  a  subject 
of  familiar  gossip  on  what  was  to  be  done 
with  her,  was  left  so  much  to  herself  that 
she  had  hours  of  wistful  thought  of  the  large, 
loose  discipline  of  Mrs.  Wix.  Yet  she  none 
the  less  held  it,  under  her  father's  roof,  a 
point  of  superiority  that  none  of  his  visitors 
were  ladies.  It  added  to  this  odd  security 
that  she  had  once  heard  a  gentleman  say  to 
him  as  if  it  were  a  great  joke,  and  in  obvious 
reference  to  Miss  Overmore:  "Hanged  if 
she  '11  let  another  woman  come  near  you  — 
hanged  if  she  ever  will.  She  'd  let  fly  a 
stick  at  her  as  they  do  at  a  strange  cat ! " 
Maisie  greatly  preferred  gentlemen  as  inti- 
mates in  spite  of  their  also  having  their  way 
—  louder,  but  sooner  over  —  of  laughing  out 
at  her.  They  pulled  and  pinched,  they 
teased  and  tickled  her;  some  of  them  even, 
as  they  termed  it,  shied  things  at  her,  and 
all  of  them  thought  it  funny  to  call  her 
by  names  having  no  resemblance  to  her 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        47 

own.  The  ladies,  on  the  other  hand,  ad- 
dressed her  as  "  You  poor  pet "  and  scarcely 
touched  her  even  to  kiss  her;  but  it  was  of 
the  ladies  she  was  most  afraid. 

She  was  old  enough  now  to  understand 
how  disproportionate  a  stay  she  had  already 
made  with  her  father;  and  also  old  enough 
to  enter  a  little  into  the  ambiguity  that  sur- 
rounded this  circumstance  and  that  oppressed 
her  particularly  whenever  the  question  had 
been  touched  upon  in  talk  with  her  gover- 
ness. "  Oh,  you  need  n't  worry ;  she  does  n't 
care!"  Miss  Overmore  had  often  said  to  her 
in  reference  to  any  fear  that  her  mother 
might  resent  her  prolonged  detention.  "  She 
has  other  people  than  poor  little  you  to  think 
about,  and  she  has  gone  abroad  with  them, 
and  you  needn't  be  in  the  least  afraid  that 
she'll  stickle  this  time  for  her  rights." 
Maisie  knew  Mrs.  Farange  had  gone  abroad, 
for  she  had  had,  many  weeks  before,  a  letter 
from  her,  that  began  "My  precious  pet" 
and  that  took  leave  for  an  indeterminate 
time ;  but  she  had  not  seen  in  it  a  renuncia- 
tion of  hatred  or  of  the  writer's  policy  of 
asserting  herself,  for  the  sharpest  of  all  her 
impressions  had  been  that  there  was  nothing 
her  mother  would  ever  care  so  much  about 


48        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

as  to  torment  Mr.  Farange.  What  at  last, 
however,  in  this  connection,  was  bewilder- 
ing and  a  little  frightening  was  the  dawn  of 
a  suspicion  that  a  better  way  had  been  found 
to  torment  Mr.  Farange  than  to  deprive  him 
of  his  periodical  burden.  This  was  the 
question  that  worried  our  young  lady  and 
that  Miss  Overmore's  confidences  and  the 
frequent  observations  of  her  employer  only 
rendered  more  mystifying.  It  was  a  contra- 
diction that  if  Ida  had  now  a  fancy  for  shirk- 
ing the  devotion  she  had  originally  been  so 
hot  about  her  late  husband  should  n't  jump 
at  the  monopoly  for  which  he  had  also  in  the 
first  instance  so  fiercely  fought;  but  when 
Maisie,  with  a  subtlety  beyond  her  years, 
sounded  this  new  ground  her  main  success 
was  in  hearing  her  mother  more  freshly 
abused.  Miss  Overmore,  up  to  now,  had 
rarely  deviated  from  a  decent  reserve;  but 
the  day  came  when  she  expressed  herself 
with  a  vividness  not  inferior  to  Beale's  own 
on  the  subject  of  the  lady  who  had  fled  to 
the  continent  to  wriggle  out  of  her  job.  It 
would  serve  this  lady  right,  Maisie  gathered, 
if  that  contract,  in  the  shape  of  an  over- 
grown and  underdressed  daughter,  should 
be  shipped  straight  out  to  her  and  landed 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW        49 

at  her  feet  in  the  midst  of  scandalous  pas- 
times. 

The  picture  of  these  pursuits  was  what 
Miss  Overmore  took  refuge  in  when  the 
child  tried  timidly  to  ascertain  if  her  father 
were  in  danger  of  feeling  that  he  had  too 
much  of  her.  She  evaded  the  point  and 
only  kicked  up  all  around  it  the  dust  of 
Ida's  heartlessness  and  folly,  of  which  the 
supreme  proof,  it  appeared,  was  the  fact  that 
she  was  accompanied  on  her  journey  by  a 
gentleman  whom,  to  be  painfully  plain 
about  it,  she  had  —  well,  "picked  up." 
The  only  terms  on  which,  unless  they  were 
married,  ladies  and  gentlemen  might,  as 
Miss  Overmore  expressed  it,  knock  about 
together,  were  the  terms  on  which  she  and 
Mr.  Farange  had  exposed  themselves  to 
possible  misconception.  She  had  indeed, 
as  I  have  intimated,  often  explained  this 
before,  often  said  to  Maisie:  "I  don't  know 
what  in  the  world,  darling,  your  father  and 
I  should  do  without  you ;  for  you  just  make 
the  difference,  as  I  've  told  you,  of  making 
us  perfectly  proper. "  The  child  took,  in  the 
office  it  was  so  endearingly  presented  to  her 
that  she  performed,  a  comfort  that  helped 
her  to  a  sense  of  security  even  in  the  event 
4 


50        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

of  being  abandoned  by  her  mother.  Familiar 
as  she  had  become  with  the  idea  of  the  great 
alternative  to  the  proper,  she  felt  that  her 
governess  and  her  father  would  have  a  sub- 
stantial reason  for  not  emulating  that  detach- 
ment. At  the  same  time  she  had  heard 
somehow  of  little  girls  —  of  exalted  rank,  it 
was  true  —  whose  education  was  carried  on 
by  instructors  of  the  other  sex;  and  she 
knew  that  if  she  were  at  school  at  Brighton 
it  would  be  thought  an  advantage  to  her  to 
be  more  or  less  in  the  hands  of  masters. 
She  meditated  on  these  mysteries  and  she 
at  last  remarked  to  Miss  Overmore  that  if 
she  should  go  to  her  mother  perhaps  the 
gentleman  might  become  her  tutor. 

"The  gentleman — ?"  The  proposition 
was  complicated  enough  to  make  Miss  Over- 
more  stare. 

"  The  one  who  's  with  mamma.  Might  n't 
that  make  it  right  —  as  right  as  your  being  my 
governess  makes  it  for  you  to  be  with  papa?  " 

Miss  Overmore  considered.  She  colored 
a  little;  then  she  embraced  her  ingenious 
disciple.  "You're  too  sweet!  I 'm  a  real 
governess. " 

"And  couldn't  he  be  a  real  tutor?" 

" Of  course  not.     He  's  ignorant  and  bad." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        51 

"Bad —  ?  "  Maisie  echoed  with  wonder. 

Her  companion  gave  a  queer  little  laugh  at 
her  tone.  "  He 's  ever  so  much  younger  —  " 
But  here  she  paused. 

"  Younger  than  you  ?  " 

Miss  Overmore  laughed  again.  It  was 
the  first  time  Maisie  had  seen  her  approach 
so  nearly  to  a  giggle.  "  Younger  than  —  no 
matter  whom  !  I  don't  know  anything  about 
him,  and  I  don't  want  to  !  "  she  rather  incon- 
sequently  added.  "He's  not  my  sort,  and 
I  'm  sure,  my  own  darling,  he  's  not  yours." 
And  she  repeated  the  embrace  with  which 
her  colloquies  with  Maisie  almost  always 
terminated  and  which  made  the  child  feel 
that  her  affection  at  least  was  a  gage  of 
safety.  Parents  had  come  to  seem  preca- 
rious, but  governesses  were  evidently  to  be 
trusted.  Maisie' s  faith  in  Mrs.  Wix,  for 
instance,  had  suffered  no  lapse  from  the  fact 
that  all  communication  with  her  was  tempo- 
rarily at  an  end.  During  the  first  weeks  of 
their  separation  Clara  Matilda's  mamma  had 
repeatedly  and  dolefully  written  to  her,  and 
Maisie  had  answered  with  an  excitement 
qualified  only  by  orthographical  delays ;  but 
this  correspondence  had  been  duly  submitted 
to  Miss  Overmore,  with  the  final  conse- 


52        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

quence  of  incurring  a  lively  disapproval.  It 
was  this  lady's  view  that  Mr.  Farange 
would  n't  care  for  it  at  all ;  and  she  ended  by 
confessing  —  since  her  pupil  pushed  her  — 
that  she  didn't  care  for  it  herself.  She  was 
furiously  jealous,  she  said;  and  that  circum- 
stance was  only  a  new  proof  of  her  disinter- 
ested affection.  She  pronounced  Mrs.  Wix's 
effusions  moreover  illiterate  and  unprofit- 
able, and  made  no  scruple  of  declaring  it 
extraordinary  that  a  woman  in  her  senses 
should  have  placed  the  formation  of  her 
daughter's  mind  in  such  ridiculous  hands. 
Maisie  was  well  aware  that  the  proprietress 
of  the  old  brown  dress  and  the  old  odd  head- 
gear was  a  very  different  class  of  person  from 
Miss  Overmore;  but  it  was  now  brought 
home  to  her  with  pain  that  she  was  educa- 
tionally quite  out  of  the  question.  She  was 
buried  for  the  time  beneath  a  conclusive 
remark  of  Miss  Overmore' s  —  "  She  's  really 
beyond  a  joke!  "  This  remark  was  made  as 
that  charming  woman  held  in  her  hand  the 
last  letter  that  Maisie  was  to  receive  from 
Mrs.  Wix;  it  was  fortified  by  a  decree 
abolishing  the  preposterous  tie.  "Must  I 
then  write  and  tell  her  —  ?  "  the  child 
bewilderedly  inquired.  She  grew  pale  at 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        53 

the  image  of  the  dreadful  things  it  appeared 
to  be  prescribed  to  her  to  say.  "  Don't  dream 
of  it,  my  dear — /'//  write;  you  may  trust 
me ! "  cried  Miss  Overmore,  who  indeed 
wrote  to  such  purpose  that  a  hush  in  which 
you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  descended 
upon  poor  Mrs.  Wix.  She  gave  for  weeks 
and  weeks  no  sign  whatever  of  life.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  been  as  effectually  disposed  of 
by  Miss  Overmore's  communication  as  her 
little  girl,  in  the  Harrow  Road,  had  been  dis- 
posed of  by  the  terrible  hansom.  Her  very 
silence  became,  after  this,  one  of  the  largest 
elements  of  Maisie's  consciousness ;  it  proved 
a  warm  and  habitable  air,  into  which  the 
child  penetrated  further  than  she  dared  ever 
to  mention  to  her  companions.  Somewhere 
in  the  depths  of  it  the  dim  straighteners 
were  fixed  upon  her ;  somewhere  out  of  the 
troubled  little  current  Mrs.  Wix  was  in- 
tensely waiting. 


VII 

IT  quite  fell  in  with  this  intensity  that 
one  day,  on  returning  from  a  walk  with  the 
housemaid,  Maisie  should  have  found  her 


54        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

in  the  hall,  seated  on  the  stool  usually 
occupied  by  the  telegraph-boys  who  haunted 
Beale  Farange's  door  and  kicked  their  heels 
while,  in  his  room,  answers  were  concocted 
with  the  aid  of  smoke-puffs  and  growls.  It 
had  seemed  to  her  on  their  parting  that 
Mrs.  Wix  had  reached  the  last  limits  of  the 
squeeze;  but  she  now  felt  those  limits  to  be 
transcended  and  that  the  duration  of  her 
visitor's  hug  was  a  direct  reply  to  Miss 
Overmore's  act  of  abolition.  She  under- 
stood in  a  flash  how  the  visit  had  come  to  be 
possible  —  that  Mrs.  Wix,  watching  her 
chance,  must  have  slipped  in  under  protec- 
tion of  the  fact  that  papa,  always  tormented, 
in  spite  of  her  arguments,  with  the  idea  of  a 
school,  had  for  a  three  days'  excursion  to 
Brighton  absolutely  insisted  on  the  attend- 
ance of  her  adversary.  It  was  true  that  when 
Maisie  explained  their  absence  and  their 
important  motive  Mrs.  Wix  wore  an  expres- 
sion so  peculiar  that  it  could  only  have  had 
its  origin  in  surprise.  This  contradiction, 
however,  peeped  out  only  to  vanish,  for  at 
the  very  moment  that,  in  the  spirit  of  it, 
she  threw  herself  afresh  upon  her  young 
friend  a  hansom  crested  with  neat  luggage 
rattled  up  to  the  door  and  Miss  Overmore 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        55 

bounded  out.  The  shock  of  her  encounter 
with  Mrs.  Wix  was  less  violent  than  Maisie 
had  feared  on  seeing  her  and  didn't  at  all 
interfere  with  the  sociable  tone  in  which, 
in  the  presence  of  her  rival,  she  explained  to 
her  little  charge  that  she  had  returned,  for  a 
particular  reason,  a  day  sooner  than  she  first 
intended.  She  had  left  papa  —  in  such  nice 
lodgings  —  at  Brighton ;  but  he  would  come 
back  to  his  dear  little  home  on  the  morrow. 
As  for  Mrs.  Wix,  papa's  companion  supplied 
Maisie  in  later  converse  with  the  right  word 
for  the  attitude  of  this  personage :  Mrs.  Wix 
"  stood  up  "  to  her  in  a  manner  that  the  child 
herself  felt  at  the  time  to  be  astonishing. 
This  occurred  indeed  after  Miss  Overmore 
had  so  far  waived  her  interdict  as  to  make 
a  move  to  the  dining-room,  where,  in  the 
absence  of  any  suggestion  of  sitting  down,  it 
was  scarcely  more  than  natural  that  even 
poor  Mrs.  Wix  should  stand  up.  Maisie 
immediately  inquired  if  at  Brighton,  this 
time,  anything  had  come  of  the  possibility 
of  a  school ;  to  which,  much  to  her  surprise, 
Miss  Overmore,  who  had  always  grandly 
repudiated  it,  replied,  after  an  instant,  but 
quite  as  if  Mrs.  Wix  were  not  there  — 

"  It  may  be,  darling,  that  something  will 


56        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

come.     The  objection,  I  must  tell  you,  has 
been  quite  removed." 

At  this  it  was  still  more  startling  to  hear 
Mrs.  Wix  speak  out  with  great  firmness. 
"I  don't  think,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say 
so,  that  there's  any  arrangement  by  which 
the  objection  can  be  '  removed. '  What  has 
brought  me  here  to-day  is  that  I  've  a  mes- 
sage for  Maisie  from  dear  Mrs.  Farange. " 

The  child's  heart  gave  a  great  thump. 
"  Oh,  mamma  's  come  back  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  sweet  love,  but  she's  coming," 
said  Mrs.  Wix;  "and  she  has  —  most  thought- 
fully, you  know  —  sent  me  on  to  prepare  you. " 

"To  prepare  her  for  what,  pray?"  asked 
Miss  Overmore,  whose  primitive  mildness 
had  evidently,  with  this  news,  taken  a  turn 
for  the  worse. 

Mrs.  Wix  quietly  applied  her  straighteners 
to  Miss  Overmore' s  florid  loveliness.  "Well, 
miss,  for  a  very  important  communication. " 

"  Can't  dear  Mrs.  Farange,  as  you  so  oddly 
call  her,  make  her  communications  directly? 
Can't  she  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  her 
only  daughter  ?  "  the  younger  lady  demanded. 
"  Maisie  herself  will  tell  you  that  it 's  months 
and  months  since  she  has  had  so  much  as  a 
word  from  her." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW.       57 

"Oh,  but  I  've  written  to  mamma!"  cried 
the  child,  as  if  this  would  do  quite  as  well. 

"  That  makes  her  treatment  of  you  all  the 
greater  scandal !  "  the  governess  in  posses- 
sion promptly  declared. 

"Mrs.  Farange  is  too  well  aware,"  said 
Mrs.  Wix,  with  sustained  spirit,  "of  what 
becomes  of  her  letters  in  this  house." 

Maisie's  sense  of  fairness  hereupon  inter- 
posed for  her  visitor.  "You  know,  Miss 
Overmore,  that  papa  doesn't  like  everything 
of  mamma's." 

"No  one  likes,  my  dear,  to  be  made  the 
subject  of  such  language  as  your  mother's 
letters  contain.  They  were  not  fit  for  the 
innocent  child  to  see,"  Miss  Overmore 
observed  to  Mrs.  Wix. 

"Then  I  don't  know  what  you  complain 
of,  and  she  's  better  without  them.  It  serves 
every  purpose  that  I  'm  in  Mrs.  Farange 's 
confidence." 

Miss  Overmore  gave  a  scornful  laugh. 
"Then  you  must  be  mixed  up  with  some 
extraordinary  proceedings." 

"None  so  extraordinary,"  cried  Mrs.  Wix, 
turning  very  pale,  "as  to  say  horrible  things 
about  the  mother  to  the  face  of  the  helpless 
daughter." 


58        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"Things  not  a  bit  more  horrible,  I  think," 
Miss  Overmore  rejoined,  "than  those  you, 
madam,  appear  to  have  come  here  to  say 
about  the  father." 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  for  a  moment  hard  at 
Maisie;  then,  turning  again  to  her  other 
interlocutress,  she  spoke  with  a  trembling 
voice.  "  I  came  to  say  nothing  about  him, 
and  you  must  excuse  Mrs.  Farange  and  me 
if  we  are  not  as  irreproachable  as  the  com- 
panion of  his  travels. " 

The  young  woman  thus  described  stared  an 
instant  at  the  audacity  of  the  description  — 
she  apparently  needed  time  to  take  it  in. 
Maisie,  however,  gazing  solemnly  from  one 
of  the  disputants  to  the  other,  observed  that 
her  answer,  when  it  came,  perched  upon 
smiling  lips.  "It  will  do  quite  as  well,  no 
doubt,  if  you  come  up  to  the  requirements 
of  the  companion  of  Mrs.  Farange." 

Mrs.  Wix  broke  into  a  queer  laugh  —  it 
sounded  to  Maisie  like  an  unsuccessful  imi- 
tation of  a  neigh.  "That's  just  what  I'm 
here  to  make  known  —  how  perfectly  the 
poor  lady  comes  up  to  them  herself!"  She 
straightened  herself  before  the  child.  "  You 
must  take  your  mamma's  message,  Maisie, 
and  you  must  feel  that  her  wishing  me  to 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


59 


come  to  you  with  it  this  way  is  a  great  proof 
of  interest  and  affection.  She  sends  you 
her  particular  love  and  announces  to  you 
that  she 's  engaged  to  be  married  to  Sir 
Claude." 

"  Sir  Claude  ? "  Maisie  wonderingly  echoed. 
But  while  Mrs.  Wix  explained  that  this 
gentleman  was  a  dear  friend  of  Mrs. 
Farange's,  who  had  been  of  great  assistance 
to  her  in  getting  to  Florence  and  in  making 
herself  comfortable  there  for  the  winter,  she 
was  not  too  violently  shaken  to  perceive  her 
old  friend's  enjoyment  of  the  effect  of  this 
news  on  Miss  Overmore.  The  young  lady 
opened  her  eyes  and  flushed.  She  imme- 
diately remarked  that  Mrs.  Farange's  mar- 
riage would  of  course  put  an  end  to  any 
further  pretensions  to  take  her  daughter 
back.  Mrs.  Wix  inquired  with  astonishment 
why  it  should  do  anything  of  the  sort,  and 
Miss  Overmore  promptly  gave  as  a  reason 
that  it  was  clearly  but  another  dodge  in  a 
system  of  dodging.  She  wanted  to  get  out 
of  the  bargain :  why  else  had  she  now  left 
Maisie  on  her  father's  hands  weeks  and 
weeks  beyond  the  time  about  which  she  had 
originally  made  such  a  fuss?  It  was  vain 
for  Mrs.  Wix  to  represent  —  as  she  speedily 


60        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

proceeded  to  do  —  that  all  this  time  would  be 
made  up  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Farange  returned. 
She,  Miss  Overmore,  knew  nothing,  thank 
heaven,  about  her  confederate;  but  she  was 
very  sure  that  any  person  capable  of  forming 
that  sort  of  relation  with  the  lady  in  Florence 
was  a  person  who  could  easily  be  put  for- 
ward as  objecting  to  the  presence  in  his 
house  of  the  fruit  of  a  union  that  his  dignity 
must  ignore.  It  was  a  game  like  another, 
and  Mrs.  Wix's  visit  was  clearly  the  first 
move  in  it.  Maisie  found  in  this  exchange 
of  asperities  a  fresh  incitement  to  the  un- 
formulated  fatalism  in  which  her  observation 
of  her  own  career  had  long  since  taken 
refuge ;  and  it  was  the  beginning,  for  her,  of 
a  deeper  prevision  that,  in  spite  of  Miss 
Overmore' s  brilliancy  and  Mrs.  Wix's  pas- 
sion, she  should  live  to  see  a  change  in  the 
nature  of  the  struggle  she  appeared  to  have 
come  into  the  world  to  produce.  It  would 
still  be  essentially  a  struggle,  but  its  object 
would  now  be  not  to  receive  her. 

Mrs.  Wix,  after  Miss  Overmore's  last 
demonstration,  addressed  herself  wholly  to 
the  little  girl,  and,  drawing  from  the  pocket 
of  her  dingy  old  pelisse  a  small  flat  parcel, 
removed  its  envelope  and  wished  to  know  if 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        61 

that  looked  like  a  gentleman  who  wouldn't 
be  nice  to  everybody  —  let  alone  to  a  person 
he  would  be  so  sure  to  find  so  nice.  Mrs. 
Farange,  in  the  geniality  of  new-found  hap- 
piness, had  enclosed  a  "  cabinet  "  photograph 
of  Sir  Claude,  and  Maisie  lost  herself  in 
admiration  of  the  fair,  smooth  face,  the 
regular  features,  the  kind  eyes,  the  amiable 
air,  the  general  glossiness  and  smartness  of 
her  prospective  step-father  —  only  vaguely 
puzzled  to  think  that  she  should  now  have 
two  fathers  at  once.  Her  researches  had 
hitherto  indicated  that  to  incur  a  second 
parent  of  the  same  sex  you  had  usually  to 
lose  the  first.  "Isn't  he  sympathetic?" 
asked  Mrs.  Wix,  who  had  clearly,  on  the 
strength  of  his  charming  portrait,  made 
up  her  mind  that  Sir  Claude  promised  her  a 
future.  "You  can  see,  I  hope,"  she  added 
with  much  expression,  "  that  he  's  a  perfect 
gentleman !  "  Maisie  had  never  before  heard 
the  word  "sympathetic"  applied  to  any- 
body's face;  it  struck  her  very  much,  and 
from  that  moment  it  agreeably  remained 
with  her.  She  testified,  moreover,  to  the 
force  of  her  own  perceptions  in  a  long,  soft 
little  sigh  of  response  to  the  pleasant  eyes 
that  seemed  to  seek  her  acquaintance,  to 


62        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

speak  to  her  directly.  "  He  's  quite  lovely ! " 
she  declared  to  Mrs.  Wix.  Then  eagerly, 
irrepressibly,  as  she  still  held  the  photo- 
graph and  Sir  Claude  continued  to  frater- 
nize, "Oh,  can't  I  keep  it?"  she  broke  out. 
No  sooner  had  she  done  so  than  she  looked 
up  from  it  at  Miss  Overmore  —  this  was 
with  the  sudden  impulse  to  put  the  case  to 
the  authority  that  had  long  ago  impressed  on 
her  that  she  mustn't  ask  for  things.  Miss 
Overmore,  to  her  surprise,  looked  distant 
and  rather  odd,  hesitating  and  giving  her 
time  to  turn  again  to  Mrs.  Wix.  Then 
Maisie  saw  that  lady's  long  face  lengthen. 
It  was  stricken  and  almost  scared,  as  if  her 
young  friend  really  expected  more  of  her 
than  she  had  to  give.  The  photograph  was 
a  possession  that,  direly  denuded,  she  clung 
to,  and  there  was  a  momentary  struggle 
between  her  fond  clutch  of  it  and  her  capa- 
bility of  every  sacrifice  for  her  precarious 
pupil.  With  the  acuteness  of  her  years, 
however,  Maisie  was  of  the  opinion  that  her 
own  avidity  would  triumph,  and  she  held 
out  the  picture  to  Miss  Overmore  as  if  she 
were  quite  proud  of  her  mother.  "Isn't  he 
just  lovely  ?  "  she  demanded,  while  poor  Mrs. 
Wix  hungrily  wavered,  her  straighteners 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        63 

largely  covering  it  and  her  pelisse  gathered 
about  her  with  an  intensity  that  strained 
its  ancient  seams. 

"It  was  to  me,  darling,"  the  visitor  said, 
"that  your  mamma  so  generously  sent  it; 
but  of  course,  if  it  would  give  you  particular 
pleasure  —  ! "  She  faltered,  only  gasping 
her  surrender. 

Miss  Overmore  continued  extremely  re- 
mote. "If  the  photograph's  your  property, 
my  dear,  I  shall  be  happy  to  oblige  you  by 
looking  at  it  on  some  future  occasion.  But 
you  must  excuse  me  if  I  decline  to  touch  any 
object  belonging  to  Mrs.  Wix." 

Mrs.  Wix,  by  this  time,  had  grown  very 
red.  "  You  might  as  well  see  him  this  way, 
miss,"  she  retorted,  "as  you  certainly  never 
will,  I  believe,  in  any  other!  Keep  the 
pretty  picture,  by  all  means,  my  precious," 
she  went  on.  "Sir  Claude  will  be  happy 
himself,  I  dare  say,  to  give  me  one  with  a 
kind  inscription."  The  pathetic  quaver  of 
this  brave  little  boast  was  not  lost  upon 
Maisie,  who  threw  herself  so  gratefully  upon 
Mrs.  Wix's  neck  that,  on  the  termination  of 
their  embrace,  the  public  tenderness  of 
which,  she  felt,  made  up  for  the  sacrifice  she 
imposed,  their  companion  had  had  time  to 


64        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

put  a  quick  hand  to  Sir  Claude  and,  with  a 
glance  at  him  or  not,  whisk  him  effectually 
out  of  sight.  Released  from  the  child's 
arms  Mrs.  Wix  looked  about  for  the  picture. 
Then  she  fixed  Miss  O  verm  ore  with  a  hard, 
dumb  stare ;  and  finally,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
little  girl  again,  achieved  the  grimmest  of 
smiles.  "Well,  nothing  matters,  Maisie, 
because  there's  another  thing  your  mamma 
wrote  about.  She  has  made  sure  of  me." 
Even  after  her  loyal  hug  Maisie  felt  like  a 
small  sneak  as  she  glanced  at  Miss  Overmore 
for  permission  to  understand  this.  But 
Mrs.  Wix  left  them  in  no  doubt  of  what  it 
meant.  "She  has  definitely  engaged  me  — 
for  her  return  and  for  yours.  Then  you'll 
see  for  yourself."  Maisie,  on  the  spot, 
quite  believed  she  should;  but  the  pros- 
pect was  suddenly  thrown  into  confusion  by 
an  extraordinary  demonstration  from  Miss 
Overmore. 

"Mrs.  Wix,"  said  that  young  lady,  "has 
some  undiscoverable  reason  for  regarding 
your  mother's  hold  on  you  as  strengthened 
by  the  fact  that  she  's  about  to  marry.  I 
wonder  then  —  on  that  system  —  what  Mrs. 
Wix  will  say  to  your  father's." 

Miss  Overmore' s  words  were  directed  to 


WHAT   MAISIE  KNEW        65 

her  pupil,  but  her  face,  lighted  with  the 
irony  that  made  it  prettier  even  than  ever 
before,  was  presented  to  the  dingy  figure 
that  had  stiffened  itself  for  departure.  The 
child's  discipline  had  been  bewildering:  it 
had  ranged  freely  between  the  prescription 
that  she  was  to  answer  when  spoken  to  and 
the  experience  of  lively  penalties  on  obeying 
that  prescription.  This  time,  nevertheless, 
she  felt  emboldened  for  risks;  above  all  as 
something  still  more  bewildering  seemed  to 
have  leaped  into  her  sense  of  the  relations 
of  things.  She  raised  to  Miss  Overmore's 
face  all  the  timidity  of  her  eyes.  "  Do  you 
mean  papa's  hold  on  me?  Do  you  mean 
he's  about  to  marry?" 

"Papa  is  not  about  to  marry;  papa  is 
married,  my  dear.  Papa  was  married  the 
day  before  yesterday  at  Brighton."  Miss 
Overmore  glittered  more  gayly.  On  the 
spot  it  came  over  Maisie,  and  quite  daz- 
zlingly,  that  her  pretty  governess  was  a 
bride.  "He's  my  husband,  if  you  please, 
and  I 'm  his  little  wife.  So  now  we 'II  see 
who  's  your  little  mother ! "  She  caught  her 
pupil  to  her  bosom  in  a  manner  that  was  not 
to  have  been  outdone  by  the  emissary  of  her 
predecessor,  and  a  few  minutes  later,  when 

5 


66        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

things  had  lurched  back  into  their  places, 
that  poor  lady,  quite  defeated  of  the  last 
word,  had  soundlessly  taken  flight. 


VIII 

AFTER  Mrs.  Wix's  retreat,  Miss  Overmore 
appeared  to  recognize  that  she  was  not 
exactly  in  a  position  to  denounce  Ida 
Farange's  second  union;  but  she  drew  from 
a  table-drawer  the  photograph  of  Sir  Claude 
and,  standing  there  before  Maisie,  bent  her 
eyes  on  it  for  some  moments. 

"Isn't  he  beautiful?"  the  child  ingenu- 
ously asked. 

Her  companion  hesitated.  "No;  he's 
horrid ! "  she,  to  Maisie's  surprise,  sharply 
returned.  But  she  looked  for  another  minute ; 
after  which  she  handed  back  the  picture.  It 
appeared  to  Maisie  herself  to  exhibit  a  fresh 
attraction,  and  she  was  embarrassed,  for  she 
had  never  before  had  occasion  to  differ  from 
her  lovely  friend.  So  she  only  could  ask 
what,  such  being  the  case,  she  should  do 
with  it :  should  she  put  it  quite  away  — 
where  it  wouldn't  be  there  to  offend?  On 
this  Miss  Overmore  again  deliberated; 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        67 

then  she  said  unexpectedly :  "  Put  it  on  the 
schoolroom  mantelpiece." 

Maisie  had  apprehensions.  "Won't  papa 
dislike  to  see  it  there? " 

"Very  much  indeed ;  but  that  won't  matter 
now."  Miss  Overmore  spoke  with  peculiar 
significance  and  to  her  pupil's  mystifi- 
cation. 

"  On  account  of  the  marriage  ?  "  Maisie 
inquired. 

Miss  Overmore  laughed,  and  Maisie  could 
see  that  in  spite  of  the  irritation  produced 
by  Mrs.  Wix  she  was  in  high  spirits. 
"Which  marriage  do  you  mean?" 

With  the  question  put  to  her  it  suddenly 
seemed  to  the  child  that  she  did  n't  know, 
and  she  felt  that  she  looked  foolish.  So 
she  took  refuge  in  saying  "  Shall  you  be 
different —  ?"  This  was  a  full  implication 
that  the  bride  of  Sir  Claude  would  be. 

"  As  your  father's  wedded  wife  ?  Utterly  ! " 
Miss  Overmore  replied.  And  the  difference 
began,  of  course,  in  her  being  addressed, 
even  by  Maisie,  from  that  day  and  by  her 
particular  request,  as  Mrs.  Beale.  It  was 
there  indeed  also  that  it  almost  ended,  for 
except  that  the  child  could  reflect  that  she 
should  presently  have  four  parents  in  all, 


68        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

and  also  that  at  the  end  of  three  months  the 
staircase,  for  a  little  girl  hanging  over  banis- 
ters, sent  up  the  deepening  rustle  of  more 
delicate  advances,  everything  made  the  same 
impression  as  before.  Mrs.  Beale  had  very 
pretty  frocks,  but  Miss  Overmore's  had  been 
quite  as  good ;  and  if  papa  was  much  fonder 
of  his  second  wife  than  he  had  been  of  his 
first,  Maisie  had  foreseen  that  fondness  and 
followed  its  development  almost  as  closely 
as  the  victim  of  it.  There  was  little  indeed 
in  the  relations  of  her  companions  that  her 
precocious  experience  couldn't  explain;  for 
if  they  struck  her  as,  after  all,  rather  defi- 
cient in  that  air  of  the  honeymoon  of  which 
she  had  so  often  heard  —  in  much  detail,  for 
instance,  from  Mrs.  Wix  —  it  was  natural  to 
judge  this  circumstance  in  the  light  of  papa's 
proved  disposition  to  contest  the  empire  of 
the  matrimonial  tie.  His  honeymoon,  when 
he  came  back  from  Brighton  —  not  on  the 
morrow  of  Mrs.  Wix's  visit  and  not,  oddly, 
till  several  days  later  —  his  honeymoon  was 
perhaps  perceptibly  tinged  with  the  dawn  of 
a  later  stage  of  wedlock.  There  were  things 
as  to  which,  for  Mrs.  Beale,  as  the  child  had 
learnt,  his  dislike  wouldn't  matter  now,  and 
their  number  increased  so  that  such  a  trifle 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW        69 

as  his  hostility  to  the  photograph  of  Sir 
Claude  quite  dropped  out  of  view.  This 
pleasing  object  found  a  conspicuous  place  in 
the  schoolroom,  which,  in  truth,  Mr.  Farange 
seldom  entered  and  in  which  silent  admira- 
tion formed,  during  the  time  I  speak  of, 
almost  the  sole  scholastic  exercise  of  Mrs. 
Beale's  pupil. 

Maisie  was  not  long  in  seeing  just  what 
her  stepmother  had  meant  by  the  difference 
she  should  show  as  Mrs.  Beale.  If  she  was 
her  father's  wife  she  wasn't  her  own  gover- 
ness ;  and  if  her  presence  had  had  formerly 
to  be  made  regular  by  the  theory  of  a 
humble  function  she  was  now  on  a  footing 
that  dispensed  with  all  theories  and  was 
inconsistent  with  all  servitude.  That  was 
what  she  had  meant  by  the  removal  of  the 
obstacle  to  a  school :  her  small  companion 
was  no  longer  required  at  home  as  — •  it  was 
Mrs.  Beale's  own  amusing  word  —  a  little 
duenna.  The  objection  to  a  successor  to 
Miss  Overmore  remained;  it  was  composed 
frankly  of  the  fact,  of  which  Mrs.  Beale 
granted  the  full  absurdity,  that  she  was  too 
awfully  fond  of  her  stepdaughter  to  bring 
herself  to  see  her  in  vulgar  and  mercenary 
hands.  The  note  of  this  particular  danger 


70        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

emboldened  Maisie  to  put  in  a  word  for  Mrs. 
Wix,  the  modest  measure  of  whose  avidity 
she  had  taken  from  the  first;  but  Mrs.  Beale 
disposed  afresh  and  effectually  of  a  candidate 
who  would  be  sure  to  act  in  some  horrible 
and  insidious  way  in  Ida's  interest  and  who 
moreover  was  personally  loathsome  and  as 
ignorant  as  a  fish.  She  made  also  no  less  of 
a  secret  of  the  awkward  fact  that  a  good 
school  would  be  hideously  expensive,  and  of 
the  further  circumstance,  which  seemed  to 
put  an  end  to  everything,  that  when  it  came 
to  the  point  papa,  in  spite  of  his  previous 
clamor,  was  really  most  nasty  about  paying. 
"Would  you  believe,"  Mrs.  Beale  confi- 
dentially asked  of  her  little  charge,  "  that  he 
says  I  'm  a  worse  expense  than  ever  and 
that  a  daughter  and  a  wife  together  are  really 
more  than  he  can  afford  ?  "  It  was  thus  that 
the  splendid  school  at  Brighton  lost  itself  in 
the  haze  of  larger  questions,  though  the  fear 
that  it  would  provoke  Ida  to  leap  into 
the  breach  subsided  with  her  prolonged, 
her  quite  shameless  non-appearance.  Her 
daughter  and  her  successor  were  therefore 
left  to  gaze  in  united  but  helpless  blankness 
at  all  that  Maisie  was  not  learning. 

This  quantity  was  so  great  as  to  fill  the 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW        71 

child's  days  with  a  sense  of  intermission  to 
which  even  French  Lisette  gave  no  accent 
—  with  finished  games  and  unanswered  ques- 
tions and  dreaded  tests;  with  the  habit, 
above  all,  in  her  watch  for  a  change,  of 
hanging  over  banisters  when  the  door-bell 
sounded.  This  was  the  great  refuge  of  her 
impatience,  but  what  she  heard  at  such  times 
was  a  clatter  of  gayety  downstairs;  the 
impression  of  which,  from  her  earliest  child- 
hood, had  built  up  in  her  the  belief  that  the 
grown-up  time  was  the  time  of  real  amuse- 
ment and,  above  all,  of  real  intimacy.  Even 
Lisette,  even  Mrs.  Wix  had  never,  she  felt, 
in  spite  of  hugs  and  tears,  been  so  intimate 
with  her  as  so  many  persons  at  present  were 
with  Mrs.  Beale  and  as  so  many  others  of 
old  had  been  with  Mrs.  Farange.  The  note 
of  hilarity  brought  people  together  still 
more  than  the  note  of  melancholy,  which 
was  the  one  exclusively  sounded,  for  in- 
stance, by  poor  Mrs.  Wix.  Maisie,  in  these 
days,  preferred  none  the  less  that  domestic 
revels  should  be  wafted  to  her  from  a  dis- 
tance; she  felt  sadly  unsupported  for  facing 
the  interrogatory  of  the  drawing-room.  That 
was  a  reason  the  more  for  making  the  most 
of  Susan  Ash,  who,  in  her  quality  of  under- 


72        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

housemaid,  moved  at  a  very  different  level 
and  who,  none  the  less,  was  much  depended 
upon  out  of  doors.  She  was  a  guide  to 
peregrinations  that  had  little  in  common 
with  those  intensely  definite  airings  that 
had  left  with  the  child  a  vivid  memory  of 
the  regulated  mind  of  Moddle.  There  were 
under  Moddle' s  system  no  dawdles  at  shop- 
windows  and  no  nudges,  in  Oxford  Street, 
of  "  I  say,  look  at  *er!"  There  was  an  inex- 
orable treatment  of  crossings  and  a  serene 
exemption  from  the  fear  that  —  especially  at 
corners,  of  which  she  was  yet  weakly  fond  — 
haunted  the  housemaid,  the  fear  of  being, 
as  she  ominously  said,  "spoken  to."  The 
dangers  of  the  town,  equally  with  its  diver- 
sions, added  to  Maisie's  sense  of  being 
untutored  and  unclaimed. 

The  situation,  however,  had  taken  a  twist 
when,  on  another  of  her  returns,  at  Susan's 
side,  extremely  tired,  from  the  pursuit  of 
exercise  qualified  by  much  hovering,  she 
encountered  another  emotion.  She  on  this 
occasion  learnt  at  the  door  that  her  instant 
attendance  was  requested  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Crossing  the  threshold  in  a  cloud  of 
shame  she  discerned  through  the  blur  Mrs. 
Beale  seated  there  with  a  gentleman  who 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        73 

immediately  drew  the  pain  from  her  predica- 
ment by  rising  before  her  as  the  original 
of  the  photograph  of  Sir  Claude.  She  felt 
the  moment  she  looked  at  him  that  he  was 
by  far  the  most  radiant  person  with  whom 
she  had  yet  been  concerned ;  and  her  pleasure 
in  seeing  him,  in  knowing  that  he  took  hold 
of  her  and  kissed  her,  as  quickly  throbbed 
into  a  strange,  shy  pride  in  him,  a  percep- 
tion of  his  making  up  for  her  fallen  state, 
for  Susan's  public  nudges,  which  quite 
bruised  her,  and  for  all  the  lessons  that,  in 
the  dead  schoolroom,  where  at  times  she  was 
almost  afraid  to  stay  alone,  she  was  bored 
with  not  having.  It  was  as  if  he  had  told 
her  on  the  spot  that  he  belonged  to  her,  so 
that  she  could  already  show  him  off  and  see 
the  effect  he  produced.  No,  nothing  else 
that  was  most  beautiful  that  had  ever 
belonged  to  her  could  kindle  that  particular 
joy  —  not  Mrs.  Beale  at  that  very  moment, 
not  papa  when  he  was  gay,  nor  mamma  when 
she  was  dressed,  nor  Lisette  when  she  was 
new.  The  joy  almost  overflowed  in  tears 
when  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  and  drew  her 
to  him,  telling  her,  with  a  smile  of  which 
the  promise  was  as  bright  as  that  of  a 
Christmas-tree,  that  he  knew  her  ever  so 


74        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

well  by  her  mother,  but  had  come  to  see  her 
now  so  that  he  might  know  her  really.  She 
could  see  that  his  view  of  the  way  "really" 
to  know  her  was  to  make  her  come  away 
with  him,  and,  further,  that  this  was  what 
he  was  there  for,  and  had  already  been  some 
time,  arranging  it  with  Mrs.  Beale,  and 
getting  on  with  that  lady  in  a  manner  evi- 
dently not  at  all  affected  by  her  having,  on 
the  arrival  of  his  portrait,  thought  of  him  so 
ill.  They  had  grown  almost  intimate  —  or 
had  the  air  of  it  —  over  their  discussion ;  and 
it  was  still  further  conveyed  to  Maisie  that 
Mrs.  Beale  had  made  no  secret,  and  would 
make  yet  less  of  one,  of  all  that  it  cost  to  let 
her  go.  "  You  seem  so  tremendously  eager," 
she  said  to  the  child,  "  that  I  hope  you  're  at 
least  clear  about  Sir  Claude's  relation  to 
you.  It  doesn't  appear  to  occur  to  him  to 
give  you  the  necessary  reassurance. " 

Maisie,  a  trifle  mystified,  turned  quickly 
to  her  new  friend.  "Why,  it's  of  course 
that  you  're  married  to  her,  is  n't  it  ?" 

Her  anxious  emphasis  started  them  off,  as 
she  had  learned  to  call  it;  this  was  the  echo 
she  infallibly  and  now  quite  resignedly  pro- 
duced. Moreover  Sir  Claude's  laughter  was 
an  indistinguishable  part  of  the  sweetness  of 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       75 

his  being  there.  "  We  've  been  married,  my 
dear  child,  three  months,  and  my  interest  in 
you  is  a  consequence,  don't  you  know?  of  my 
great  affection  for  your  mother.  In  coming 
here  it 's  of  course  for  your  mother  I  'm 
acting." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Maisie  said,  with  all  the 
candor  of  her  competence.  "  She  can't  come 
herself  —  except  just  to  the  door."  Then  as 
she  thought  afresh:  "Can't  she  come  even 
to  the  door  now  ? " 

"There  you  are!"  Mrs.  Beale  explained 
to  Sir  Claude.  She  spoke  as  if  his  dilemma 
were  ludicrous. 

His  kind  face,  in  a  hesitation,  seemed 
to  recognize  it;  but  he  answered  the  child 
with  a  frank  smile.  "  No  —  not  very  well. " 

"  Because  she  has  married  you  ?  " 

He  promptly  accepted  this  reason.  "  Well, 
that  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it. " 

He  was  so  delightful  to  talk  to  that 
Maisie  pursued  the  subject.  "  But  papa  — 
he  has  married  Miss  Overmore." 

"Yes,  and  you  '11  see  that  he  won't  come 
for  you  at  your  mother's,"  that  lady  inter- 
posed. 

"Ah,  but  that  won't  be  for  a  long  time," 
Maisie  hastened  to  respond. 


76        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"We  won't  talk  about  it  now;  you've 
months  and  months  to  put  in  first."  And 
Sir  Claude  drew  her  closer. 

"  Oh,  that 's  what  makes  it  so  hard  to  give 
her  up ! "  Mrs.  Beale  sighed,  holding  out 
her  arms  to  her  stepdaughter.  Maisie, 
quitting  Sir  Claude,  went  over  to  them,  and, 
clasped  in  a  still  tenderer  embrace,  felt 
entrancingly  the  expansion  of  the  field  of 
happiness.  "I'll  come  for  you,"  said  her 
stepmother,  "  if  Sir  Claude  keeps  you  too 
long;  we  must  make  him  quite  understand 
that!  Don't  talk  to  me  about  her  lady- 
ship!" she  went  on,  to  their  visitor,  so 
familiarly  that  it  was  almost  as  if  they  must 
have  met  before.  "I  know  her  ladyship  as 
if  I  had  made  her.  They  're  a  pretty  pair  of 
parents ! "  Mrs.  Beale  exclaimed. 

Maisie  had  so  often  heard  them  called  so 
that  the  remark  diverted  her  but  an  instant 
from  the  agreeable  wonder  of  this  grand  new 
form  of  allusion  to  her  mother ;  and  that,  in 
its  turn,  presently  left  her  free  to  catch  at 
the  pleasant  possibility,  in  connection  with 
herself,  of  a  relation  much  happier,  as  be- 
tween Mrs.  Beale  and  Sir  Claude  than  as 
between  mamma  and  papa.  Still  the  next 
thing  that  happened  was  that  her  interest 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


77 


in  such  a  relation  brougnt  to  her  lips  a  fresh 
question.  "Have  you  seen  papa?"  she 
asked  of  Sir  Claude. 

It  was  the  signal  for  their  going  off  again, 
as  her  small  stoicism  had  perfectly  taken  for 
granted  that  it  would  be.  All  that  Mrs. 
Beale  had,  nevertheless,  to  add  was  the 
vague  apparent  sarcasm  :  "  Oh,  papa ! " 

"I'm  assured  he's  not  at  home,"  Sir 
Claude  replied  to  the  child;  "but  if  he  had 
been  I  should  have  hoped  for  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  him." 

"Won't  he  mind  your  coming?"  Maisie 
went  on. 

"Oh,  you  bad  little  girl!"  Mrs.  Beale 
humorously  protested. 

The  child  could  see  that  at  this  Sir 
Claude,  though  still  moved  to  mirth,  colored 
a  little;  but  he  spoke  to  her  very  kindly. 
"That 's  just  what  I  came  to  see,  you  know 
—  whether  your  father  would  mind.  But 
Mrs.  Beale  appears  strongly  of  the  opinion 
that  he  won't." 

This  lady  promptly  justified  her  opinion 
to  her  stepdaughter.  "  It  will  be  very  inter- 
esting, my  dear,  you  know,  to  find  out  what 
it  is,  to-day,  that  your  father  does  mind. 
I  'm  sure  /  don't  know ! "  And  she  repeated, 


78        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

though  with  perceptible  resignation,  her 
sigh  of  a  moment  before.  "Your  father, 
darling,  is  a  very  odd  person  indeed."  She 
turned  with  this,  smiling,  to  Sir  Claude. 
"But  perhaps  it  's  hardly  civil  for  me  to  say 
that  of  his  not  objecting  to  have  you  in  the 
house.  If  you  knew  some  of  the  people  he 
does  have ! " 

Maisie  knew  them  all,  and  none  indeed 
were  to  be  compared  to  Sir  Claude.  He 
laughed  back  at  Mrs.  Beale:  he  looked  at 
such  moments  quite  as  Mrs.  Wix,  in  the 
long  stories  she  told  her  pupil,  always  de- 
scribed the  lovers  of  her  distressed  beauties 
— "  the  perfect  gentleman  and  strikingly 
handsome."  He  got  up,  to  the  child's 
regret,  as  if  he  were  going.  "Oh,  I  dare 
say  we  should  be  all  right ! " 

Mrs.  Beale  once  more  gathered  in  her 
little  charge,  holding  her  close  and  looking 
thoughtfully  over  her  head  at  their  visitor. 
"It 's  so  charming  —  for  a  man  of  your  type 
—  to  have  wanted  her  so  much ! " 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  type  ?  "  Sir 
Claude  inquired.  "Whatever  it  may  be,  I 
dare  say  it  deceives  you.  The  truth  about 
me  is  simply  that  I  'm  the  most  unappreciated 
of  —  what  do  you  call  the  fellows?  *  family 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW        79 

men.'  Yes,  I 'm  a  family  man;  upon  my 
honor  I  am  !  " 

"Then  why  on  earth,"  cried  Mrs.  Beale, 
"didn't  you  marry  a  family  woman?" 

Sir  Claude  looked  at  her  hard.  "  You 
know  whom  one  marries,  I  think.  Besides, 
there  are  no  family  women  —  hanged  if  there 
are!  None  of  them  want  any  children  — 
hanged  if  they  do!" 

His  account  of  the  matter  was  most  inter- 
esting, and  Maisie,  a's  if  it  were  of  bad  omen 
for  her,  stared  at  the  picture  in  some  dismay. 
At  the  same  time  she  felt,  through  encircling 
arms,  her  protectress  hesitate.  "You  do 
come  out  with  things !  But  you  mean  her 
ladyship  doesn't  want  any  —  really?" 

"Won't  hear  of  them  —  simply.  But  she 
can't  help  the  one  she  has  got."  And  with 
this  Sir  Claude's  eyes  rested  on  the  little 
girl  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  her  to  mask  her 
mother's  attitude  with  the  consciousness  of 
her  own.  "  She  must  make  the  best  of  her, 
don't  you  see?  If  only  for  the  look  of  the 
thing,  don't  you  know,  one  wants  one's  wife 
to  take  the  proper  line  about  her  child." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  one  wants ! "  Mrs. 
Beale  declared  with  a  competence  that  evi- 
dently impressed  her  interlocutor. 


8o        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  Well,  if  you  keep  him  up  —  and  I  dare 
say  you've  had  worry  enough —  why  should  n't 
I  keep  Ida?  What 's  sauce  for  the  goose  is 
sauce  for  the  gander  —  or  the  other  way 
round,  don't  you  know  ?  I  mean  to  see  the 
thing  through." 

Mrs.  Beale,  for  a  minute,  still  with  her 
eyes  on  him  as  he  leaned  upon  the  chimney- 
piece,  appeared  to  turn  this  over.  "  You  're 
just  a  wonder  of  kindness  —  that 's  what  you 
are ! "  she  said  at  last.  "  A  lady  's  expected 
to  have  natural  feelings.  But  your  horrible 
sex — isn't  it  a  horrible  sex,  little  love?" 
she  demanded  with  her  cheek  upon  her 
step-daughter's. 

"Oh,  I  like  gentlemen  best,"  Maisie 
lucidly  replied. 

The  words  were  taken  up  merrily.  "  That 's 
a  good  one  for  you  !  "  Sir  Claude  exclaimed 
to  Mrs.  Beale. 

"No,"  said  that  lady;  "I  've  only  to  re- 
member the  women  she  sees  at  her  mother's. " 

"Ah,  they 're  very  nice  now,"  Sir  Claude 
returned. 

"What  do  you  call  nice?" 

"Well,  they 're  all  right." 

"That  doesn't  answer  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Beale ;  "  but  I  dare  say  you  do  take  care  of 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        81 

them.  That  makes  you  more  of  an  angel  to 
want  this  job  too."  She  playfully  whacked 
her  smaller  companion. 

"I'm  not  an  angel  —  I'm  an  old  grand- 
mother," Sir  Claude  declared;  "I  like  babies; 
I  always  did.  If  we  go  to  smash  I  shall 
look  for  a  place  as  a  '  responsible  nurse. '  " 

Maisie,  in  her  charmed  mood,  drank  in  an 
imputation  on  her  years  which  at  another 
moment  might  have  been  bitter;  but  the 
charm  was  sensibly  interrupted  by  Mrs. 
Beale's  screwing  her  round  and  gazing 
fondly  into  her  eyes.  "You're  willing  to 
leave  me,  you  wretch  ?  " 

The  little  girl  deliberated ;  even  her 
attachment  to  this  bright  presence  had 
become  as  a  cord  she  must  suddenly  snap. 
But  she  snapped  it  very  gently.  "  Is  n't  it 
my  turn  for  mamma  ?  " 

"  You  're  a  horrible  little  hypocrite !  The 
less,  I  think,  now  said  about  '  turns '  the 
better,"  Mrs.  Beale  made  answer,  "/know 
whose  turn  it  is.  You  've  not  such  a  passion 
for  your  mother !  " 

"I  say,  I  say:  do  look  out!"  Sir  Claude 
quite  amiably  protested. 

"There  's  nothing  she  has  n't  heard.  But 
it  does  n't  matter  —  it  has  n't  spoiled  her.  If 
6 


82        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

you  knew  what  it  costs  me  to  part  with 
you ! "  she  went  on  to  Maisie. 

Sir  Claude  watched  her  as  she  charmingly 
clung  to  the  child.  "I'm  so  glad  you  really 
care  for  her.  That 's  so  much  to  the  good." 

Mrs.  Beale  slowly  got  up,  still  with  her 
hands  on  Maisie,  but  emitting  a  little  soft 
exhalation.  "Well,  if  you  're  glad,  that  may 
help  us ;  for  I  assure  you  I  shall  never  give 
up  any  rights  in  her  I  may  consider  that, 
by  my  own  sacrifices,  I  've  acquired.  I 
shall  hold  very  fast  to  my  interest  in  her. 
What  seems  to  have  happened  is  that  she 
has  brought  you  and  me  together." 

"  She  has  brought  you  and  me  together, " 
said  Sir  Claude. 

The  cheerfulness  of  his  assent  to  this 
proposition  was  contagious,  and  Maisie 
broke  out  almost  with  enthusiasm:  "I've 
brought  you  and  her  together!" 

Her  companions,  of  course,  laughed  anew, 
and  Mrs.  Beale  gave  her  an  affectionate 
shake.  "You  little  monster — take  care 
what  you  do!  But  that's  what  she  does 
do,"  she  continued  to  Sir  Claude.  "She  did 
it  to  me  and  Beale." 

"Well,  then,"  he  said  to  Maisie,  "you 
must  try  the  trick  at  our  place."  He  held 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        83 

out  his  hand  to  her  again.     "Will  you  come 
now?  " 

"  Now  —  just  as  I  am  ?  "  She  turned  with 
an  immense  appeal  to  her  stepmother,  tak- 
ing a  leap  over  the  mountain  of  "mending," 
the  abyss  of  packing,  that  had  loomed  and 
yawned  before  her.  "  Oh,  may  I  ?  " 

Mrs.  Beale  addressed  her  assent  to  Sir 
Claude.  "As  well  so  as  any  other  way. 
I'll  send  on  her  things  to-morrow."  Then 
she  gave  a  tug  to  the  child's  coat,  glancing 
at  her  up  and  down  with  some  ruefulness. 
"She's  not  turned  out  as  I  should  like; 
her  mother  will  pull  her  to  pieces.  But 
what 's  one  to  do  —  with  nothing  to  do  it  on? 
And  she  's  better  than  when  she  came  —  you 
can  tell  her  mother  that.  I  'm  sorry  to  have 
to  say  it  to  you  —  but  the  poor  child  was  a 
sight ! " 

"  Oh,  I  '11  turn  her  out  myself ! "  the  vis- 
itor cordially  announced. 

"  I  shall  like  to  see  how ! "  —  Mrs.  Beale 
appeared  much  amused.  "You  must  bring 
her  to  show  me  —  we  can  manage  that. 
Good-bye,  little  fright."  And  her  last  word 
to  Sir  Claude  was  that  she  would  keep  him 
up  to  the  mark. 


84        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


IX 


THE  idea  of  what  she  was  to  make  up  and 
the  prodigious  total  to  come  were  kept  well 
before  Maisie  at  her  mother's.  These  things 
were  the  constant  occupation  of  Mrs.  Wix, 
who  arrived  there  by  the  back-stairs,  but  in 
tears  of  joy,  the  day  after  her  own  arrival. 
The  process  of  making  up,  as  to  which  the 
good  lady  had  an  immense  deal  to  say,  took, 
through  its  successive  phases,  so  long  that  it 
promised  to  be  a  period  at  least  equal  to  the 
child's  last  period  with  her  father.  But  this 
was  a  fuller  and  richer  time;  it  bounded 
along  to  the  tune  of  Mrs.  Wix's  constant 
insistence  on  the  energy  they  must  both  put 
forth.  There  was  a  fine  intensity  in  the 
way  the  child  agreed  with  her  that  under 
Mrs.  Beale  and  Susan  Ash  she  had  learned 
nothing  whatever  —  the  wildness  of  the 
rescued  castaway  was  one  of  the  forces 
that  would  henceforth  make  for  her  a  career 
of  conquest.  The  year  therefore  rounded 
itself  as  a  receptacle  of  retarded  knowledge, 
a  cup  brimming  over  with  the  sense  that 
now,  at  least,  she  was  learning.  Mrs.  Wix 
fed  this  sense  from  the  stores  of  her  conver- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        85 

sation  and  with  the  immense  bustle  of  her 
reminder  that  they 'must  cull  the  fleeting 
hour.  They  were  surrounded  with  subjects 
they  must  take  at  a  rush  and  were  perpetu- 
ally getting  into  the  attitude  of  triumphant 
attack.  They  had  certainly  no  idle  hours, 
and  the  child  went  to  bed  each  night  as  from 
a  long  day's  play.  This  had  begun  from 
the  moment  of  their  reunion  —  begun  with 
all  Mrs.  Wix  had  to  tell  her  young  friend  of 
the  reasons  of  her  ladyship's  extraordinary 
behavior  at  the  very  first. 

It  took  the  form  of  her  ladyship's  refusal 
for  three  days  to  see  her  child  —  three  days, 
during  which  Sir  Claude  made  hasty,  merry 
dashes  into  the  schoolroom  to  smooth  down 
the  odd  situation,  to  say,  "She'll  come 
round,  you  know;  I  assure  you,  she  '11  come 
round,"  and  a  little  even  to  make  up  to 
Maisie  for  the  indignity  he  had  caused  her 
to  suffer.  There  had  never,  in  the  child's 
life,  been,  in  all  ways,  such  a  delightful 
amount  of  reparation.  It  came  out  by  his 
sociable  admission  that  her  ladyship  had  not 
known  of  his  visit  to  her  late  husband's 
house  and  of  his  having  made  that  person's 
daughter  a  pretext  for  striking  up  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  dreadful  creature  in- 


86        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

stalled  there.  Heaven  knew  she  wanted 
her  child  back  and  had  made  every  plan 
of  her  own  for  removing  her  —  what  she 
could  n't,  for  the  present  at  least,  forgive  any 
one  concerned  was  the  meddling,  underhand 
way  in  which  Sir  Claude  had  brought  about 
the  transfer.  Maisie  carried  more  of  the 
weight  of  this  resentment  than  even  Mrs. 
Wix's  confidential  ingenuity  could  lighten 
for  her;  especially  as  Sir  Claude  himself 
was  not  at  all  ingenious,  though  indeed,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  not  at  all  crushed. 
He  was  amused  and  intermittent  and  at 
moments  most  startling;  he  brought  out  to 
his  young  companion,  with  a  frankness  that 
agitated  her  much  more  than  he  seemed  to 
guess,  that  he  depended  on  her  not  letting 
her  mother,  when  she  should  see  her,  get 
anything  out  of  her  about  anything  Mrs. 
Beale  might  have  said  to  him.  He  came  in 
and  out;  he  professed,  in  joke,  to  take  tre- 
mendous precautions;  he  showed  a  positive 
disposition  to  romp.  He  chaffed  Mrs.  Wix 
till  she  was  purple  with  the  pleasure  of  it, 
and  reminded  Maisie  of  the  reticence  he 
expected  of  her  till  she  set  her  teeth  like 
an  Indian  captive.  Her  lessons,  these  first 
days  and  indeed  for  long  after,  seemed  to  be 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW        87 

all  about  Sir  Claude;  and  yet  she  never 
really  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Wix  that  she  was 
prepared,  under  his  inspiring  injunction,  to 
be  vainly  tortured.  This  lady,  however,  had 
formulated  the  position  of  things  with  an 
acuteness  that  showed  how  little  she  needed 
to  be  coached.  Her  explanations  of  every- 
thing that  seemed  not  quite  pleasant  —  and 
if  her  own  footing  was  perilous  it  met  that 
danger  as  well  —  was  that  her  ladyship  was 
passionately  in  love.  Maisie  accepted  this 
hint  with  infinite  awe  and  pressed  upon  it 
much  when  she  was  at  last  summoned  into 
the  presence  of  her  mother. 

There  she  encountered  matters  in  which  it 
seemed  really  to  help  to  give  her  a  clew  — 
an  almost  terrifying  strangeness,  full,  none 
the  less,  after  a  little,  of  reverberations  of 
Ida's  old  fierce,  demonstrative  recoveries  of 
possession.  They  had  been  some  time  in 
the  house  together,  and  this  demonstration 
came  late;  preoccupied,  however,  as  Maisie 
was  with  the  idea  of  the  sentiment  Sir 
Claude  had  inspired,  and  familiar,  in  addi- 
tion, by  Mrs.  Wix's  anecdotes,  with  the 
ravages  that,  in  general,  such  a  sentiment 
could  produce,  she  was  able  to  make  allow- 
ances for  her  ladyship's  remarkable  appear- 


88        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

ance,  her  violent  splendor,  the  wonderful 
color  of  her  lips,  and  even  the  hard  stare, 
like  that  of  some  gorgeous  idol  described  in 
a  story-book,  that  had  come  into  her  eyes  in 
consequence  of  a  curious  thickening  of  their 
already  rich  circumference.  Her  professions 
and  explanations  were  mixed  with  eager 
challenges  and  sudden  drops,  in  the  midst 
of  which  Maisie  recognized,  as  a  memory  of 
other  years,  the  rattle  of  her  trinkets  and 
the  scratch  of  her  endearments,  the  odor  of 
her  clothes  and  the  jumps  of  her  conversa- 
tion. She  had  all  her  old,  clever  way  — 
Mrs.  Wix  said  it  was  "  aristocratic  "  —  of 
changing  the  subject  as  she  might  have 
slammed  the  door  in  your  face.  The  prin- 
cipal thing  that  was  different  was  the  tint 
of  her  golden  hair,  which  had  changed  to  a 
coppery  red  and,  with  the  head  it  profusely 
covered,  struck  the  child  as  now  lifted  still 
further  aloft.  This  picturesque  parent  showed 
literally  a  grander  stature  and  an  ampler 
presence;  things  which,  with  some  others 
that  might  have  been  bewildering,  were 
handsomely  accounted  for  by  the  romantic 
state  of  her  affections.  It  was  her  affections, 
Maisie  could  easily  see,  that  led  Ida  to  break 
out  into  questions  as  to  what  had  passed, 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW        89 

at  the  other  house,  between  that  horrible 
woman  and  Sir  Claude ;  but  it  was  also  just 
here  that  the  little  girl  was  able  to  recall  the 
effect  with  which,  in  earlier  days,  she  had 
practised  the  pacific  art  of  stupidity.  This 
art  again  came  to  her  aid;  her  mother,  in 
getting  rid  of  her  after  an  interview  in  which 
she  had  achieved  a  vacancy  beyond  her  years, 
allowed  her  fully  to  understand  that  she  had 
not  grown  a  bit  more  amusing. 

She  could  bear  that  —  she  could  bear  any- 
thing that  helped  her  to  feel  that  she  had 
done  something  for  Sir  Claude.  If  she  had  n't 
told  Mrs.  Wix  how  Mrs.  Beale  seemed  to 
like  him  she  certainly  could  n't  tell  her  lady- 
ship. In  the  way  the  past  revived  for  her 
there  was  a  queer  confusion :  it  was  because 
mamma  hated  papa  that  she  used  to  want 
to  know  bad  things  of  him,  and  if  at  present 
she  wanted  to  know  the  same  of  Sir  Claude 
it  was  quite  from  the  opposite  motive.  She 
was  awestruck  at  the  manner  in  which  a  lady 
might  be  affected  through  the  passion  men- 
tioned by  Mrs.  Wix:  she  held  her  breath 
with  the  sense  of  picking  her  steps  among 
the  tremendous  things  of  life.  What  she 
did,  however,  now,  after  the  interview  with 
her  mother,  impart  to  Mrs.  Wix  was  that 


90        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

in  spite  of  her  having  had  her  "  good " 
effect,  as  she  called  it,  her  ladyship's  last 
words  had  been  that  her  ladyship's  duty  by 
her  would  be  thoroughly  done.  Over  this 
announcement  governess  and  pupil  looked 
at  each  other  in  silent  profundity;  but,  as 
the  weeks  went  by,  it  had  no  consequences 
that  interfered  gravely  with  the  breezy  gallop 
of  making  up.  Her  ladyship's  duty  took 
at  times  the  form  of  not  seeing  her  child 
for  days  together,  and  Maisie  led  her  life 
in  great  prosperity  between  Mrs.  Wix  and 
kind  Sir  Claude.  Mrs.  Wix  had  a  new  dress 
and,  as  she  was  the  first  to  proclaim,  a  better 
position ;  so  it  all  struck  Maisie  as  a  crowded, 
brilliant  life,  with,  for  the  time,  Mrs.  Beale 
and  Susan  Ash  simply  "  left  out "  like  chil- 
dren not  invited  to  a  Christmas  party.  Mrs. 
Wix  had  a  secret  terror,  which,  like  most 
of  her  secret  feelings,  she  discussed  with 
her  little  companion,  in  great  solemnity,  by 
the  hour  —  the  possibility  of  her  ladyship's 
coming  down  on  them,  in  her  sudden  high- 
bred way,  with  a  school.  But  she  had  also 
a  balm  to  this  fear  in  a  conviction  of  the 
strength  of  Sir  Claude's  grasp  of  the  situ- 
ation. He  was  too  pleased  —  did  n't  he 
constantly  say  as  much?  —  with  the  good 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW        91 

impression  made,  in  a  wide  circle,  by  Ida's 
sacrifices ;  and  he  came  into  the  schoolroom 
repeatedly  to  let  them  know  how  beautifully 
he  felt  everything  had  gone  off  and  every- 
thing would  go  on. 

He  disappeared  at  times  for  days,  when 
his  patient  friends  understood  that  her  lady- 
ship would  naturally  absorb  him;  but  he 
always  came  back  with  the  drollest  stories 
of  where  he  had  been  —  a  wonderful  picture 
of  society,  and  even  with  pretty  presents 
that  showed  how,  in  absence,  he  thought  of 
his  home.  Besides  giving  Mrs.  Wix,  by  his 
conversation,  a  sense  that  they  almost  them- 
selves "  went  out/'  he  gave  her  a  five-pound 
note,  and  the  history  of  France,  and  an 
umbrella  with  a  malachite  knob ;  and  to 
Maisie  both  chocolate-creams  and  story- 
books and  a  lovely  great-coat  (which  he 
took  her  out  all  alone  to  buy),  besides  ever 
so  many  games,  in  boxes,  with  printed  direc- 
tions, and  a  bright  red  frame  for  the  protec- 
tion of  his  famous  photograph.  The  games 
were,  as  he  said,  to  while  away  the  evening 
hour,  and  the  evening  hour  indeed  often 
passed  in  futile  attempts  on  Mrs.  Wix's  part 
to  master  what  "  it  said "  on  the  papers. 
When  he  asked  the  pair  how  they  liked 


92        WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

the  games  they  always  replied  "  Oh,  im- 
mensely !  "  but  they  had  earnest  discussions 
as  to  whether  they  had  n't  better  appeal  to 
him  frankly  for  aid  to  understand  them. 
This  was  a  course  their  delicacy  shrank 
from ;  they  could  n't  have  told  exactly  why, 
but  it  was  a  part  of  their  tenderness  for  him 
not  to  let  him  think  they  had  trouble. 
What  dazzled  most  was  his  kindness  to 
Mrs.  Wix  —  not  only  the  five-pound  note 
and  the  "  not  forgetting  her,"  but  the  perfect 
consideration,  as  she  called  it  with  an  air  to 
which  her  sounding  of  the  words  gave  the 
only  grandeur  Maisie  was  to  have  seen  her 
wear  save  on  a  certain  occasion  hereafter 
to  be  described  —  an  occasion  when  the  poor 
lady  was  grander  than  all  of  them  put  to- 
gether. He  shook  hands  with  her,  he  rec- 
ognized her,  as  she  said,  and,  above  all, 
more  than  once,  he  took  her,  with  his  step- 
daughter, to  the  pantomime  and,  in  the 
crowd,  coming  out,  publicly  gave  her  his 
arm.  When  he  met  them  in  sunny  Picca- 
dilly he  made  merry  and  turned  and  walked 
with  them,  heroically  suppressing  his  con- 
sciousness of  the  stamp  of  his  company;  a 
gallantry  that  —  needless  for  Mrs.  Wix  to 
sound  those  words  —  her  ladyship,  though 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW        93 

a  blood-relation/was  little  enough  the  woman 
to  be  capable  of.  Even  to  the  hard  heart 
of  childhood  there  was  something  tragic  in 
such  elation  at  such  humanities :  it  brought 
home  to  Maisie  the  way  her  humble  com- 
panion had  sidled  and  ducked  through  life. 
But  it  settled  the  question  of  the  degree  to 
which  Sir  Claude  was  a  gentleman :  he  was 
more  of  one  than  anybody  else  in  the 
world  —  "  I  don't  care,"  Mrs.  Wix  repeatedly 
remarked,  "whom  you  may  meet  in  grand 
society,  nor  even  to  whom  you  may  be 
contracted  in  marriage."  There  were  ques- 
tions that  Maisie  never  asked,  so  her  gover- 
ness was  spared  the  embarrassment  of  telling 
her  if  he  were  more  of  a  gentleman  than  papa  ; 
that  was  not  moreover  from  the  want  of  oppor- 
tunity, for  there  were  no  moments  between 
them  at  which  the  topic  could  be  irrelevant 
—  no  subject  they  were  going  into,  not  even 
the  principal  dates  or  the  auxiliary  verbs,  in 
which  it  was  further  off  than  the  turn  of  the 
page.  The  answer,  on  the  winter  nights,  to 
the  puzzle  of  cards  and  counters  and  little  be- 
wildering pamphlets  was  just  to  draw  up  to  the 
fire  and  talk  about  him ;  and  if  the  truth  must 
be  told  this  edifying  interchange  constituted 
for  the  time  the  little  girl's  chief  education. 


94        WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

It  must  also  be  admitted  that  he  took 
them  far  —  further  perhaps  than  was  always 
warranted  by  the  old-fashioned  conscience, 
the  dingy  decencies  of  Maisie's  simple  in- 
structress. There  were  hours  when  Mrs. 
Wix  sighingly  testified  to  the  scruples  she 
surmounted  —  seemed  to  ask  what  other  line 
one  could  take  with  a  young  person  whose 
experience  had  been,  as  it  were,  so  peculiar. 
"  It  is  n't  as  if  you  did  n't  already  know 
everything,  is  it,  love?"  and  "  I  can't  make 
you  any  worse  than  you  are,  can  I,  darling?  " 
—  these  were  the  terms  in  which  the  good 
lady  justified  to  herself  and  her  pupil  her 
pleasant  conversational  ease.  What  the  pupil 
already  knew  was  indeed  rather  taken  for 
granted  than  expressed,  but  it  performed 
the  useful  function  of  transcending  all  text- 
books, and  supplanting  all  studies.  If  the 
child  could  n't  be  worse  it  was  a  comfort 
even  to  herself  that  she  was  bad  —  a  comfort 
offering  a  broad,  firm  support  to  the  funda- 
mental fact  of  the  present  crisis,  the  fact 
that  mamma  was  fearfully  jealous.  This 
was  another  side  of  the  circumstance  of 
mamma's  passion,  and  the  deep  couple  in 
the  schoolroom  were  not  long  in  working 
round  to  it.  It  brought  them  face  to  face 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW        95 

with  the  idea  of  the  inconvenience  suffered 
by  any  lady  who  marries  a  gentleman  pro- 
ducing on  other  ladies  the  charming  effect  of 
Sir  Claude.  That  such  ladies  would  freely 
fall  in  love  with  him  was  a  reflection  naturally 
irritating  to  his  wife.  One  day  when  some 
accident  —  some  report  of  a  banged  door 
or  some  scurry  of  a  scared  maid  —  had 
rendered  this  truth  particularly  vivid  Maisie, 
receptive  and  profound,  suddenly  said  to  her 
companion :  "  And  you,  my  dear,  are  you 
in  love  with  him  too  ?  " 

Even  her  profundity  had  left  a  margin 
for  a  laugh;  so  she  was  a  trifle  startled  by 
the  solemn  promptitude  with  which  Mrs. 
Wix  plumped  out :  "  Over  head  and  ears. 
I've  never — since  you  ask  me  —  been  so 
far  gone." 

This  boldness  had  none  the  less  no  effect 
of  deterrence  for  her  when,  a  few  days  later 
—  it  was  because  several  had  elapsed  with- 
out a  visit  from  Sir  Claude  —  her  governess 
turned  the  tables.  "  May  I  ask  you,  miss, 
if  you  are?"  Mrs.  Wix  brought  it  out,  she 
could  see,  with  hesitation,  but  clearly  intend- 
ing a  joke.  "  Why,  yes  !  "  the  child  made 
answer,  as  if  in  surprise  at  not  having  long 
ago  seemed  sufficiently  to  commit  herself; 


96        WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

on  which  her  friend  gave  a  sigh  of  appar- 
ent satisfaction.  It  might  in  fact  have  ex- 
pressed positive  relief.  Everything  was  as  it 
should  be. 

Yet  it  was  not  with  them,  they  were  very 
sure,  that  her  ladyship  was  furious,  nor  be- 
cause she  had  forbidden  it  that  there  befell  at 
last  a  period  —  six  months  brought  it  round 
• — when  for  days  together  he  scarcely  came 
near  them.  He  was  "  off"  and  Ida  was  "off," 
and  they  were  sometimes  "  off"  together  and 
sometimes  apart.  There  were  seasons  when 
the  simple  students  had  the  house  to  them- 
selves, when  the  very  servants  seemed  also  to 
be  "  off"  and  dinner  became  a  reckless  forage 
in  pantries  and  sideboards.  Mrs.  Wix  re- 
minded her  disciple  on  such  occasions  — 
hungry  moments,  often,  when  all  the  support 
of  the  reminder  was  required — that  the  "  real 
life"  of  their  companions,  the  brilliant  society 
in  which  it  was  inevitable  they  should  move 
and  the  complicated  pleasures  in  which  it 
was  almost  presumptuous  of  the  mind  to  fol- 
low them,  must  offer  features  literally  not  to 
be  imagined  without  being  seen.  At  one  of 
these  times  Maisie  found  her  opening  it  out 
that,  though  the  difficulties  were  many,  it  was 
Mrs.  Beale  who  had  now  become  the  chief. 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW        97 

Then,  somehow,  it  was  brought  fully  to  the 
child's  knowledge  that  her  stepmother  had 
been  making  attempts  to  see  her;  that  her 
mother  had  deeply  resented  it;  that  her 
stepfather  had  backed  her  stepmother  up ; 
that  the  latter  had  pretended  to  be  acting  as 
the  representative  of  her  father ;  and  that  her 
mother  took  the  whole  thing,  in  plain  terms, 
very  hard.  The  situation  was,  as  Mrs.  Wix 
declared,  an  extraordinary  muddle  to  be 
sure.  Her  account  of  it  brought  back  to 
Maisie  the  happy  vision  of  the  way  Sir 
Claude  and  Mrs.  Beale  had  made  acquain- 
tance —  an  incident  to  which,  with  her  step- 
father, though  she  had  had  little  to  say  about 
it  to  Mrs.  Wix,  she  had  during  the  first 
weeks  of  her  stay  at  her  mother's  found 
more  than  one  opportunity  to  revert.  As  to 
what  had  taken  place  the  day  Sir  Claude 
came  for  her,  she  had  been  vaguely  grateful 
to  Mrs.  Wix  for  not  attempting,  as  her  mother 
had  attempted,  to  put  her  through.  This  was 
what  Sir  Claude  had  called  the  process  when 
he  warned  her  of  it  and  again,  afterwards, 
when  he  told  her  she  was  an  awfully  good 
chap  for  having  foiled  it.  Then  it  was  that, 
well  aware  Mrs.  Beale  had  n't  in  the  least 
really  given  her  up,  she  had  asked  him  if  he 
7 


98        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

remained  in  communication  with  her  and  if, 
for  the  time,  everything  must  really  be  held 
to  be  at  an  end  between  her  stepmother  and 
herself.  This  conversation  had  occurred  in 
consequence  of  his  one  day  popping  into  the 
schoolroom  and  finding  Maisie  alone. 


HE  was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  he  stood 
before  the  fire  and  looked  at  the  meagre 
appointments  of  the  room  in  a  way  that 
made  her  rather  ashamed  of  them.  Then 
before,  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Beale,  he  let 
her  "  draw  "  him  —  that  was  another  of  his 
words ;  it  was  astonishing  how  many  she  gath- 
ered in  —  he  remarked  that  really  mamma 
kept  them  rather  low  on  the  question  of 
decorations.  Mrs.  Wix  had  put  up  a  Japa- 
nese fan  and  two  rather  grim  Texts  —  she 
had  wished  they  were  gayer,  but  they  were 
all  she  happened  to  have.  Without  Sir 
Claude's  photograph,  however,  the  place 
would  have  been,  as  he  said,  as  dull  as  a  cold 
dinner.  He  had  said  as  well  that  there  were 
all  sorts  of  things  they  ought  to  have ;  yet 
governess  and  pupil,  it  had  to  be  admitted, 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW        99 

were  still  divided  between  discussing  the 
places  where  any  sort  of  thing  would  look 
best  if  any  sort  of  thing  should  ever  come, 
and  acknowledging  that  mutability  in  the 
little  girl's  career  which  was  naturally  un- 
favorable to  accumulation.  She  stayed  long 
enough  only  to  miss  things  —  not  half  long 
enough  to  deserve  them.  The  way  Sir 
Claude  looked  about  the  schoolroom  had 
made  her  feel  with  humility  as  if  it  were  not 
very  different  from  the  shabby  attic  in  which 
she  had  visited  Susan  Ash.  Then  he  had 
said  in  abrupt  reference  to  Mrs.  Beale :  "  Do 
you  think  she  really  cares  for  you?  " 

"  Oh,  awfully !  "  Maisie  had  replied. 

"  But  I  mean  does  she  love  you  for  your- 
self, as  they  call  it,  don't  you  know?  Is  she 
as  fond  of  you,  now,  as  Mrs.  Wix?" 

The  child  turned  it  over.  "  Oh,  I  'm  not 
every  bit  Mrs.  Beale  has !  " 

Sir  Claude  seemed  much  amused  at  this. 
"  No,  you  're  not  every  bit  she  has  !  " 

He  laughed  for  some  moments ;  but  that 
was  an  old  story  to  Maisie,  and  she  was  not 
too  much  disconcerted  to  go  on :  "  But  she  '11 
never  give  me  up." 

"  Well,  I  won't  either,  old  boy ;  so  that 's 
not  so  wonderful,  and  she 's  not  the  only  one ! 


ioo      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

But  if  she 's  so  fond  of  you,  why  does  n't  she 
write  to  you?" 

"  Oh,  on  account  of  mamma."  This  was 
rudimentary,  and  she  was  almost  surprised  at 
the  simplicity  of  Sir  Claude's  question. 

"I  see  —  that's  quite  right,"  he  answered. 
"  She  might  get  at  you  —  there  are  all  sorts 
of  ways ;  but,  of  course,  there 's  Mrs.  Wix." 

"  There  's  Mrs.  Wix,"  Maisie  lucidly  con- 
curred. "  Mrs.  Wix  can't  endure  her." 

Sir  Claude  seemed  interested.  "  Oh,  she 
can't  endure  her?  Then  what  does  she  say 
about  her?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  because  she  knows  I 
should  n't  like  it.  Is  n't  it  sweet  of  her  ?  "  the 
child  asked. 

"  Certainly,  rather  nice.  Mrs.  Beale  would  n't 
hold  her  tongue  for  any  such  thing  as  that, 
would  she?  " 

Maisie  remembered  how  little  she  had  done 
so;  but  she  desired  to  protect  Mrs.  Beale 
too.  The  only  protection  she  could  think  of, 
however,  was  the  plea:  "Oh,  at  papa's,  you 
know,  they  don't  mind." 

At  this  Sir  Claude  only  smiled.  "  No ;  I 
dare  say  not.  But  here  we  mind,  don't  we? 
—  we  take  care  what  we  say.  I  don't  sup- 
pose it 's  the  sort  of  thing  I  ought  to  say," 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      101 

he  went  on;  "but  I  think  we  must,  on  the 
whole,  be  rather  nicer  here  than  at  your 
father's.  However,  I  don't  press  that;  for 
it 's  a  sort  of  question  on  which  it 's  awfully 
awkward  for  you  to  speak.  Don't  worry,  at 
any  rate;  I  assure  you  I'll  back  you  up." 
Then,  after  a  moment,  while  he  smoked,  he 
reverted  to  Mrs.  Beale  and  the  child's  first 
inquiry.  "  I  'm  afraid  we  can't  do  much  for 
her  just  now.  I  have  n't  seen  her  since  that 
day  —  upon  my  word  I  have  n't  seen  her." 
The  next  instant,  with  a  laugh  the  least  bit 
foolish,  the  young  man  slightly  colored ;  he 
felt  this  profession  of  innocence  to  be  exces- 
sive as  addressed  to  Maisie.  It  was  inevi- 
table to  say  to  her,  however,  that  of  course 
her  mother  loathed  the  lady  of  the  other 
house.  He  could  n't  go  there  again  with  his 
wife's  consent,  and  he  was  n't  the  man  —  he 
begged  her  to  believe,  falling  once  more,  in 
spite  of  himself,  into  the  scruple  of  showing 
the  child  he  did  n't  trip  —  to  go  there  without 
it.  He  was  liable  in  talking  with  her  to 
take  the  tone  of  her  being  also  a  man  of  the 
world.  He  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Beale's  to  get 
possession  of  her ;  but  that  was  entirely  dif- 
ferent. Now  that  she  was  in  her  mother's 
house,  what  pretext  had  he  to  give  her 


102       WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

mother  for  paying  calls  on  her  father's  wife? 
And  of  course  Mrs.  Beale  could  n't  come  to 
Ida's — Ida  would  tear  her  limb  from  limb. 
Maisie,  with  this  talk  of  pretexts,  remembered 
how  much  Mrs.  Beale  had  made  of  her  being 
a  good  one,  and  how,  for  such  a  function, 
it  was  her  fate  to  be  either  much  depended 
on  or  much  missed.  Sir  Claude  moreover 
recognized  on  this  occasion  that  perhaps 
things  would  take  a  turn  later  on,  and  he 
wound  up  by  saying:  "  I  'm  sure  she  does 
sincerely  care  for  you  —  how  can  she  possi- 
bly help  it?  She's  very  young  and  very 
pretty  and  very  clever ;  I  think  she  's  charm- 
ing. But  we  must  walk  very  straight.  If 
you  '11  help  me,  you  know,  I  '11  help  you"  he 
concluded  in  the  pleasant  fraternizing,  equal- 
izing, not  a  bit  patronizing  way  which  made 
the  child  ready  to  go  through  anything  for 
him,  and  the  beauty  of  which,  as  she  dimly 
felt,  was  that  it  was  not  a  deceitful  descent  to 
her  years,  but  a  real  indifference  to  them. 

It  gave  her  moments  of  secret  rapture  — 
moments  of  believing  she  might  help  him  in- 
deed. The  only  mystification  in  this  was  the 
imposing  time  of  life  that  her  elders  spoke  of 
as  youth.  For  Sir  Claude  then  Mrs.  Beale 
was  "  young,"  just  as  for  Mrs.  Wix  Sir  Claude 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


103 


was:  that  was  one  of  the  merits  for  which 
Mrs.  Wix  most  commended  him.  What 
therefore  was  Maisie  herself?  and,  in  another 
relation  to  the  matter,  what  therefore  was 
mamma?  It  took  her  some  time  to  puzzle 
out,  with  the  aid  of  an  experiment  or  two, 
that  it  would  n't  do  to  talk  about  mamma's 
youth.  She  even  went  so  far  one  day,  in 
the  presence  of  that  lady's  thick  color  and 
marked  lines,  as  to  wonder  if  it  would  occur 
to  any  one  but  herself  to  do  so.  Yet  if  she 
was  n't  young,  then  she  was  old,  and  this  threw 
an  odd  light  on  her  having  a  husband  of  a  dif- 
ferent generation.  Mr.  Farange  was  still  older 
—  that  Maisie  perfectly  knew ;  and  it  brought 
her  in  due  course  to  the  perception  of  how 
much  more,  since  Mrs.  Beale  was  younger 
than  Sir  Claude,  papa  must  be  older  than 
Mrs.  Beale.  Such  discoveries  were  discon- 
certing and  even  a  trifle  confounding:  these 
persons,  it  appeared,  were  not  of  the  age  they 
ought  to  be.  This  was  somehow  particularly 
the  case  with  mamma,  and  the  fact  made  her 
reflect  with  some  relief  on  her  not  having 
gone  with  Mrs.  Wix  into  the  question  of  Sir 
Claude's  attachment  to  his  wife.  She  was 
conscious  that  in  confining  their  attention  to 
the  state  of  her  ladyship's  own  affections  they 


104      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

had  been  controlled  —  Mrs.  Wix  perhaps  in 
especial  —  by  delicacy  and  even  by  embar- 
rassment. The  end  of  her  colloquy  with 
her  stepfather  in  the  schoolroom  was  her 
saying,  — 

"  Then  if  we  're  not  to  see  Mrs.  Beale  at 
all,  it  is  n't  what  she  seemed  to  think  when 
you  came  for  me." 

He  looked  rather  blank.  "  What  did  she 
seem  to  think?" 

"  Why,  that  I  Ve  brought  you  together." 

"  She  thought  that?"  Sir  Claude  inquired. 

Maisie  was  surprised  at  his  already  for- 
getting it.  "  Just  as  I  brought  papa  and  her. 
Don't  you  remember  she  said  so?" 

It  came  back  to  Sir  Claude  in  a  peal  of 
laughter.  "  Oh,  yes  —  she  said  so  !  " 

"  And  you  said  so,"  Maisie  lucidly  pursued. 

He  recovered  with  increasing  mirth  the 
whole  occasion.  "  And  you  said  so !  "  he 
retorted  as  if  they  were  playing  a  game. 

"Then  were  we  all  mistaken?"  the  child 
asked. 

He  considered  a  little.  "No;  on  the 
whole  not.  I  dare  say  it's  just  what  you 
have  done.  We  are  together  —  in  an  extra- 
ordinary sort  of  way.  She  's  thinking  of  us, 
of  you  and  me,  though  we  don't  meet.  And 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       105 

I  Ve  no  doubt  you  '11  find  it  will  be  all  right 
when  you  go  back  to  her/' 

"Am  I  going  back  to  her?"  Maisie 
brought  out  with  a  little  gasp  which  was 
like  a  sudden  clutch  of  the  happy  present. 

It  appeared  to  make  Sir  Claude  grave  a 
moment;  it  might  have  made  him  feel  the 
weight  of  the  pledge  his  action  had  given. 
"  Oh,  some  day,  I  suppose!  We've  lots  of 
time." 

"  I  Ve  such  a  tremendous  lot  to  make  up," 
Maisie  said  with  a  sense  of  great  boldness. 

"  Certainly ;  and  you  must  make  up  every 
hour  of  it.  Oh,  I  '11  see  that  you  do  !  " 

This  was  encouraging,  and  to  show  cheer- 
fully that  she  was  reassured  she  replied: 
"That's  what  Mrs.  Wix  sees  too." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sir  Claude ;  "  Mrs.  Wix 
and  I  are  shoulder  to  shoulder." 

Maisie  took  in  a  little  this  strong  image ; 
after  which  she  exclaimed :  "  Then  I  've  done 
it  also  to  you  and  her  —  I  Ve  brought  you 
together." 

"  Blest  if  you  have  n't !  "  Sir  Claude 
laughed ;  "  and  more,  upon  my  word,  than  any 
of  the  lot.  Oh,  you  Ve  done  for  us  !  Now, 
if  you  could  —  as  I  suggested,  you  know,  that 
day  —  only  manage  me  and  your  mother!  " 


io6      WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW 

The  child  wondered.  "  Bring  you  and  her 
together?" 

"  You  see  we  're  not  together  —  not  a  bit ! 
But  I  ought  n't  to  tell  you  such  things,  all 
the  more  that  you  won't  really  do  it  —  not 
you !  No,  old  chap,"  the  young  man  con- 
tinued ;  "  there  you  '11  break  down.  But  it 
won't  matter  —  we'll  rub  along.  The  great 
thing  is  that  you  and  I  are  all  right." 

"  We  're  all  right !  "  Maisie  echoed  de- 
voutly. But  the  next  moment,  in  the  light 
of  what  he  had  just  said,  she  asked :  "  How 
shall  I  ever  leave  you?"  It  was  just  as  if 
she  must  somehow  take  care  of  him. 

His  look  did  justice  to  her  anxiety.  "  Oh, 
well,  you  need  n't.  It  won't  come  to  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  when  I  go  you  '11  go 
with  me?" 

Sir  Claude  hesitated.  "  Not  exactly  '  with ' 
you,  perhaps ;  but  I  shall  never  be  far  off." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  where  mamma 
may  take  you?" 

He  laughed  again.  "  I  don't,  I  confess  !  " 
Then  he  had  an  idea,  but  it  seemed  a  little 
too  jocose.  "  That  will  be  for  you  to  see, 
that  she  sha'n't  take  me  too  far." 

"  How  can  I  help  it?"  Maisie  inquired  in 
surprise.  "  Mamma  does  n't  care  for  me," 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      107 

she  said  very  simply;  "not  really."  Child 
as  she  was,  her  little  long  history  was  in  the 
words,  and  it  was  as  impossible  to  contradict 
her  as  if  she  had  been  venerable. 

Sir  Claude's  silence  was  an  admission  of 
this,  and  still  more  the  tone  in  which  he 
presently  replied :  "  That  won't  prevent  her 
from  —  some  time  or  other  —  leaving  me 
with  you." 

"Then  we'll  live  together?"  she  eagerly 
demanded. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  said  Sir  Claude,  smiling, 
"  that  that  will  be  Mrs.  Beale's  real  chance." 

Her  eagerness  just  slightly  dropped  at  this ; 
she  remembered  Mrs.  Wix's  pronouncement 
that  it  was  all  an  extraordinary  muddle.  "  To 
take  me  again?  Well,  can't  you  come  to  see 
me  there?" 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say." 

Though  there  were  parts  of  childhood 
Maisie  had  lost,  she  had  all  childhood's  pref- 
erence for  the  particular  promise.  "  Then  you 
will  come  — you  '11  come  often,  won't  you?  " 
she  insisted,  while  at  the  moment  she  spoke 
the  door  opened  for  the  return  of  Mrs.  Wix. 

Sir  Claude,  hereupon,  instead  of  replying, 
gave  her  a  look  which  left  her  silent  and 
embarrassed. 


io8      WHAT  MAISIE   KNEW 

When  he  again  found  privacy  consistent, 
however  —  and  it  happened  to  be  long  in 
coming  —  he  took  up  their  conversation 
very  much  where  it  had  dropped.  "  You 
see,  my  dear,  if  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to  you 
at  your  father's,  it  is  n't  at  all  the  same  thing 
for  Mrs.  Beale  to  come  to  you  here."  Maisie 
gave  a  thoughtful  assent  to  this  proposition, 
though  conscious  that  she  could  scarcely 
herself  say  just  where  the  difference  would 
lie.  She  felt  how  much  her  stepfather  saved 
her,  as  he  said  with  his  habitual  amusement, 
the  trouble  of  that.  "  I  shall  probably  be 
able  to  go  to  Mrs.  Beale's  without  your 
mother's  knowing  it." 

Maisie  stared  with  a  certain  thrill  at  the 
dramatic  element  in  this.  "  And  she  could  n't 
come  here  without  mamma's  —  ?  "  She  was 
unable  to  articulate  the  word  for  what  mamma 
would  do. 

"  My  dear  child,  Mrs.  Wix  would  tell  of  it." 

"But  I  thought,"  Maisie  objected,  "  that 
Mrs.  Wix  and  you — " 

"Are  such  brothers  in  arms?"  Sir  Claude 
caught  her  up.  "  Oh,  yes,  about  everything 
but  Mrs.  Beale.  And  if  you  should  suggest," 
he  went  on,  "that  we  might  somehow  hide 
her  presence  here  from  Mrs.  Wix  —  " 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      109 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suggest  that ! "  Maisie  in 
turn  cut  him  short. 

Sir  Claude  looked  as  if  he  could  indeed 
quite  see  why.  "  No ;  it  would  really  be 
impossible."  There  came  to  her  from  this 
glance  at  what  they  might  hide  the  first 
small  glimpse  of  something  in  him  that  she 
would  n't  have  expected.  There  had  been 
times  when  she  had  had  to  make  the  best 
of  the  impression  that  she  herself  was  deceit- 
ful; yet  she  had  never  concealed  anything 
bigger  than  a  thought.  Of  course  she  now 
concealed  this  thought  of  how  strange  it 
would  be  to  see  him  hide;  and  while  she 
was  so  actively  engaged  he  continued :  "  Be- 
sides, you  know,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  your 
father." 

"  And  you  are  of  my  mother?" 

"  Rather,  old  man !  "  Sir  Claude  replied. 


XI 


IT  must  not  be  supposed  that  her  lady- 
ship's intermissions  were  not  qualified  by 
demonstrations  of  another  order  —  triumphal 
entries  and  breathless  pauses,  during  which 
she  seemed  to  take  of  everything  in  the 


no      WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW 

room,  from  the  state  of  the  ceiling  to  that 
of  her  daughter's  boot-toes,  a  survey  that  was 
rich  in  intentions.  Sometimes  she  sat  down 
and  sometimes  she  surged  about,  but  her 
attitude  wore  equally  in  either  case  the 
grand  air  of  the  practical.  She  found  so 
much  to  deplore  that  she  left  a  great  deal 
to  expect,  and  bristled  so  with  calculations 
that  she  seemed  to  scatter  remedies  and 
pledges.  Her  visits  were  as  good  as  an 
outfit  —  her  manner,  as  Mrs.  Wix  once  said, 
as  good  as  a  pair  of  curtains;  but  she  was 
a  person  addicted  to  extremes,  sometimes 
barely  speaking  to  her  child  and  sometimes 
pressing  this  tender  shoot  to  a  bosom  cut, 
as  Mrs.  Wix  had  also  observed,  remarkably 
low.  She  was  always  in  a  fearful  hurry,  and 
the  lower  the  bosom  was  cut  the  more  it 
was  to  be  gathered  she  was  wanted  else- 
where. She  usually  broke  in  alone,  but 
sometimes  Sir  Claude  was  with  her,  and  dur- 
ing all  the  early  period  there  was  nothing 
on  which  these  appearances  had  had  so  de- 
lightful a  bearing  as  On  the  way  her  ladyship 
was,  as  Mrs.  Wix  expressed  it,  under  the 
spell.  "But  isn't  she  under  it?"  Maisie 
used  in  thoughtful  but  familiar  reference  to 
exclaim  after  Sir  Claude  had  swept  mamma 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       in 

away  in  peals  of  natural  laughter.  Not  even 
in  the  old  days  of  the  convulsed  ladies  had 
she  heard  mamma  laugh  so  freely  as  in  these 
moments  of  conjugal  surrender,  to  the  gayety 
of  which  even  a  little  girl  could  see  she  had 
at  last  a  right  —  a  little  girl  whose  thought- 
fulness  was  now  all  happy,  selfish  meditation 
on  good  omens  and  future  fun. 

Unaccompanied,  in  subsequent  hours,  and 
with  an  effect  of  changing  to  meet  a  change, 
Ida  took  a  tone  superficially  disconcerting 
and  abrupt  —  the  tone  of  having,  at  an  im- 
mense cost,  made  over  everything  to  Sir 
Claude  and  wishing  others  to  know  that  if 
everything  was  n't  right  it  was  because  Sir 
Claude  was  so  dreadfully  vague.  "  He  has 
made  from  the  first  such  a  row  about  you," 
she  said  on  one  occasion  to  Maisie,  "that 
I  've  told  him  to  do  for  you  himself  and  try 
how  he  likes  it  —  see  ?  I  've  washed  my 
hands  of  you,  I  've  made  you  over  to  him ; 
and  if  you  're  discontented  it 's  on  him,  please, 
you  '11  come  down.  So  don't  haul  poor  me 
up  —  I  assure  you  I  've  worries  enough." 
One  of  these,  visibly,  was  that  the  spell  re- 
joiced in  by  the  schoolroom  fire  was  already 
in  danger  of  breaking ;  another  was  that  she 
was  finally  forced  to  make  no  secret  of  her 


ii2        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

husband's  unfitness  for  real  responsibilities. 
The  day  came  indeed  when  her  breathless 
auditors  learned  from  her  in  bewilderment 
that  what  ailed  him  was  that  he  was,  alas ! 
simply  not  serious.  Maisie  wept  on  Mrs. 
Wix's  bosom  after  hearing  that  Sir  Claude 
was  a  butterfly;  considering  'moreover  that 
her  governess  patched  it  up  but  ill  in  coming 
out  at  various  moments  the  next  few  days 
with  the  opinion  that  it  was  proper  to  his 
station  to  be  light  and  gay.  That  had  been 
proper  to  every  one's  station  that  she  had 
yet  encountered  save  poor  Mrs.  Wix's  own ; 
and  the  particular  merit  of  Sir  Claude  had 
seemed  precisely  that  he  was  different  from 
every  one.  She  talked  with  him,  how- 
ever, as  time  went  on,  very  freely  about  her 
mother;  being  with  him,  in  this  relation, 
wholly  without  the  fear  that  had  kept  her 
silent  before  her  father  —  the  fear  of  bearing 
tales  and  making  bad  things  worse.  He 
appeared  to  accept  the  idea  that  he  had 
taken  her  over  and  made  her,  as  he  said,  his 
particular  lark;  he  quite  agreed  also  that 
he  was  an  awful  humbug  and  an  idle  beast 
and  a  sorry  dunce.  And  he  never  said  a 
word  to  her  against  her  mother  —  he  only 
remained  dumb  and  discouraged  in  the  face 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      113 

of  her  ladyship's  own  overtopping  earnest- 
ness. There  were  occasions  when  he  even 
spoke  as  if  he  had  wrenched  his  little  charge 
from  the  arms  of  a  parent  who  had  fought 
for  her  tooth  and  nail. 

This  was  the  very  moral  of  a  scene  that 
flashed  into  vividness  one  day  when  the 
four  happened  to  meet,  without  company,  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  Maisie  found  herself 
clutched  to  her  mother's  breast  and  passion- 
ately sobbed  and  shrieked  over,  made  the 
subject  of  a  demonstration  that  evidently 
formed  the  sequel  to  a  sharp  passage  en- 
acted just  before.  The  connection  required 
that,  while  she  almost  cradled  the  child  in 
her  arms,  Ida  should  speak  of  her  as  hid- 
eously, as  fatally  estranged,  and  should  rail 
at  Sir  Claude  as  the  cruel  author  of  the 
outrage.  "  He  has  taken  you  from  me," 
she  cried ;  "  he  has  set  you  against  me, 
and  you  Ve  been  won  away,  and  your  hor- 
rid little  mind  has  been  poisoned !  You  Ve 
gone  over  to  him,  you  Ve  given  yourself 
up,  to  side  against  me  and  hate  me.  You 
never  open  your  mouth  to  me  —  you  know 
you  don't;  and  you  chatter  to  him  like  a 
dozen  magpies.  Don't  lie  about  it  —  I  hear 
you  all  over  the  place.  You  hang  about  him 
8 


ii4      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

in  a  way  that 's  barely  decent,  and  he  can  do 
what  he  likes  with  you.  Well  then,  let  him 
to  his  heart's  content ;  he  has  been  in  such  a 
hurry  to  take  you  that  we  '11  see  if  it  suits 
him  to  keep  you  !  I  'm  very  good  to  break 
my  heart  about  it  when  you  Ve  no  more 
feeling  for  me  than  a  clammy  little  fish !  " 
She  suddenly  thrust  the  child  away  and,  as 
a  disgusted  admission  of  failure,  sent  her 
flying  across  the  room  into  the  arms  of  Mrs. 
Wix,  whom,  at  this  moment  and  even  in 
the  whirl  of  her  transit,  Maisie  saw,  very 
red,  exchange  a  quick  queer  look  with  Sir 
Claude. 

The  impression  of  the  look  remained  with 
her,  confronting  her  with  such  a  critical  little 
view  of  her  mother's  explosion  that  she  felt 
the  less  ashamed  of  herself  for  incurring  the 
reproach  with  which  she  had  been  cast  off. 
Her  father  had  once  called  her  a  heartless 
little  beast,  and  now,  though  decidedly  scared, 
she  was  as  stiff  and  cold  as  if  the  description 
had  been  just.  She  was  not  even  frightened 
enough  to  cry,  which  would  have  been  a 
tribute  to  her  mother's  wrongs^  she  was 
only,  more  than  anything  else,  curious  about 
the  opinion  mutely  expressed  by  their  com- 
panions. Taking  the  earliest  opportunity  to 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      115 

question  Mrs.  Wix  on  this  subject,  she  elicited 
the  remarkable  reply :  "  Well,  my  dear,  it 's 
her  ladyship's  game ;  and  we  must  just  hold 
on  like  grim  death."  Maisie,  at  her  leisure, 
could  interpret  these  ominous  words.  Her 
reflections  indeed  at  this  moment  thickened 
apace,  and  one  of  them  made  her  sure  that 
her  governess  had  conversations,  private,  ear- 
nest and  not  infrequent,  with  her  frivolous 
stepfather.  She  perceived  in  the  light  of  a 
second  episode  that  something  beyond  her 
knowledge  had  taken  place  in  the  house. 
The  things  beyond  her  knowledge  —  numer- 
ous enough  in  truth  —  had  not  hitherto,  she 
believed,  been  the  things  that  were  nearest  to 
her;  she  had  even  had  in  the  past  a  small, 
snug  conviction  that  in  the  domestic  laby- 
rinth she  always  kept  the  clew.  This  time 
too,  however,  she  at  last  found  out;  with  the 
discreet  aid,  it  had  to  be  confessed,  of  Mrs. 
Wix.  Sir  Claude's  own  assistance  was  ab- 
ruptly taken  from  her  for  his  comment  on 
her  ladyship's  game  was  to  start  on  the  spot, 
quite  alone,  for  Paris ;  evidently  because  he 
wished  to  show  a  spirit  when  accused  of  posi- 
tive wickedness.  He  might  be  fond  of  his 
stepdaughter,  Maisie  felt,  without  wishing  her 
to  be,  after  all,  thrust  on  him  in  such  a  way. 


n6      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

His  absence  therefore,  it  was  clear,  was  a 
protest  against  the  thrusting.  It  was  while 
this  absence  lasted  that  our  young  lady 
finally  discovered  what  had  happened  in 
the  house  to  be  that  her  mother  was  no 
longer  in  love. 

The  limit  of  a  passion  for  Sir  Claude  had 
certainly  been  reached,  she  judged,  some 
time  before  the  day  on  which  her  ladyship 
burst  suddenly  into  the  schoolroom  to  in- 
troduce Mr.  Perriam,  who,  as  she  announced 
from  the  doorway  to  Maisie,  would  n't  be- 
lieve his  ears  that  one  had  a  great  hoiden 
of  a  daughter.  Mr.  Perriam  was  short  and 
massive  —  Mrs.  Wix  remarked  afterwards 
that  he  was  distinctly  fat ;  and  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  say  of  him  whether  his  head 
were  more  bald  or  his  black  moustache  more 
bushy.  He  seemed  also  to  have  moustaches 
over  his  eyes,  which,  however,  by  no  means 
prevented  these  polished  little  globes  from 
rolling  round  the  room  as  if  they  had  been 
billiard-balls  impelled  by  Ida's  celebrated 
stroke.  Mr.  Perriam  wore  on  the  hand  that 
pulled  his  moustache  a  diamond  of  dazzling 
lustre,  in  consequence  of  which  and  of  his 
general  weight  and  mystery  our  young  lady 
observed  on  his  departure  that  if  he  had 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      117 

only  had  a  turban  he  would  have  been  quite 
her  idea  of  a  heathen  Turk. 

"  He  's  quite  my  idea,"  Mrs.  Wix  replied, 
"  of  a  heathen  Jew." 

"  Well,  I  mean,"  said  Maisie,  "  of  a  person 
who  comes  from  the  East" 

"That's  where  he  must  come  from,"  her 
governess  opined.  "  He  comes  from  the 
City."  In  a  moment  she  added  as  if  she 
knew  all  about  him :  "  He 's  one  of  those 
people  who  have  lately  broken  out.  He  '11 
be  immensely  rich." 

"On  the  death  of  his  papa?"  the  child 
interestedly  inquired. 

"  Dear,  no  —  nothing  hereditary.  I  mean 
he  has  made  a  lot  of  money." 

"How  much,  do  you  think?"  Maisie  de- 
manded. 

Mrs.  Wix  reflected  and  sketched  it.  "  Oh, 
many  millions." 

"  A  hundred?"  said  her  questioner. 

Mrs.  Wix  was  n't  sure  of  the  number,  but 
there  were  enough  of  them  to  have  seemed 
to  warm  up  for  the  time  the  penury  of  the 
schoolroom,  to  linger  there  as  an  afterglow 
of  the  hot,  heavy  light  Mr.  Perriam  sensibly 
shed.  This  was  also,  no  doubt,  on  his  part, 
an  effect  of  that  enjoyment  of  life  with  which, 


n8      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

among  her  elders,  Maisie  had  been  in  contact 
from  her  earliest  years  —  the  sign  of  happy 
maturity,  the  old  familiar  note  of  overflowing 
cheer.  "  How  d'ye  do,  ma'am,  how  d'ye 
do,  little  miss?"  —  he  laughed  and  nodded 
at  the  gaping  figures.  "  She  has  brought  me 
up  for  a  peep  —  it's  true  I  wouldn't  take 
you  on  trust.  She  's  always  talking  about 
you,  but  she  would  never  produce  you :  so 
to-day  I  challenged  her  on  the  spot.  Well, 
you  ain't  a  myth,  my  dear ;  I  back  right  down 
on  that,"  the  visitor  went  on  to  Maisie ;  "  nor 
you,  either,  miss,  though  you  might  be,  to  be 
sure !  " 

"  I  bored  him  with  you,  darling  —  I  bore 
every  one,"  Ida  said ;  "  and  to  prove  that 
you  are  a  sweet  thing,  as  well  as  a  fearfully 
old  one,  I  told  him  he  could  judge  for  him- 
self. So  now  he  sees  that  you  're  a  dreadful 
bouncing  business  and  that  your  poor  old 
mummy's  at  least  sixty!  "  —  and  her  lady- 
ship smiled  at  Mr.  Perriam  with  the  charm 
that  her  daughter  had  heard  imputed  to  her 
at  papa's  by  the  merry  gentleman  who  had 
so  often  wished  to  get  from  him  what  they 
called  a  "  rise."  Her  manner  at  that  instant 
gave  the  child  a  glimpse  more  vivid  than  any 
yet  enjoyed  of  the  attraction  that  papa,  in  re- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      119 

markable  language,  always  denied  she  could 
put  forth. 

Mr.  Perriam,  however,  clearly  recognized  it 
in  the  grace  with  which  he  met  her.  "  I 
never  said  you  ain't  wonderful.  Did  I  ever 
say  it,  hey?  "  —  and  he  appealed  with  pleas- 
ant confidence  to  the  testimony  of  the  school- 
room, about  which  itself  also  he  evidently 
felt  that  he  ought  to  have  something  to  say. 
"  So  this  is  their  little  place,  hey  ?  Charm- 
ing, charming,  charming !  "  he  repeated  as  he 
vaguely  looked  round.  The  interrupted  stu- 
dents clung  together  as  if  they  had  been 
personally  exposed ;  but  Ida  relieved  their  em- 
barrassment by  a  hunch  of  her  high  shoulders. 
This  time  the  smile  she  addressed  to  Mr. 
Perriam  had  a  beauty  of  sudden  sadness. 
"  What  on  earth  's  a  poor  woman  to  do?  " 

The  visitor's  grimace  grew  more  marked 
as  he  continued  to  look,  and  the  conscious 
little  schoolroom  felt  still  more  like  a  cage  at 
a  menagerie.  "  Charming,  charming,  charm- 
ing !  "  Mr.  Perriam  insisted ;  but  the  paren- 
thesis closed  with  a  prompt  click.  "  There 
you  are  !  "  said  her  ladyship.  "  Bye-bye  !  " 
she  sharply  added.  The  next  minute  they 
were  on  the  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Wix  and  her 
companion,  at  the  open  door  and  looking 


120      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

mutely  at  each  other,  were  reached  by  the 
sound  of  the  ample  current  that  carried  them 
back  to  their  life. 

It  was  singular  perhaps,  after  this,  that 
Maisie  never  put  a  question  about  Mr.  Per- 
riam,  and  it  was  still  more  singular  that  by 
the  end  of  a  week  she  knew  all  she  did  n't 
ask.  What  she  most  particularly  knew  — 
and  the  information  came  to  her,  unsought, 
straight  from  Mrs.  Wix  —  was  that  Sir  Claude 
would  n't  at  all  care  for  the  visits  of  a  million- 
naire  who  was  in  and  out  of  the  upper  rooms. 
How  little  he  would  care  was  proved  by  the 
fact  that  under  the  sense  of  them  Mrs.  Wix's 
discretion  broke  down  altogether;  she  was 
capable  of  a  transfer  of  allegiance  —  capable, 
at  the  altar  of  propriety,  of  a  desperate  sacri- 
fice of  her  ladyship.  As  against  Mrs.  Beale, 
she  more  than  once  intimated,  she  had  been 
willing  to  do  the  best  for  her,  but  as  against 
Sir  Claude  she  could  do  nothing  for  her  at  all. 
It  was  extraordinary  the  number  of  things 
that,  still  without  a  question,  Maisie  knew  by 
the  time  her  stepfather  came  back  from  Paris 
—  came  bringing  her  a  splendid  apparatus 
for  painting  in  water-colors  and  bringing 
Mrs.  Wix,  by  a  lapse  of  memory  that  would 
have  been  droll  if  it  had  not  been  a  trifle 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       121 

disconcerting,  a  second  and  even  more  ele- 
gant umbrella.  He  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  first,  with  which,  buried  in  as  many 
wrappers  as  a  mummy  of  the  Pharaohs,  she 
would  n't  for  the  world  have  done  anything 
so  profane  as  use  it.  Maisie  knew,  above  all, 
that  though  she  was  now,  by  what  she  called 
an  informal  understanding,  on  Sir  Claude's 
"  side,"  she  had  not  yet  uttered  a  word  to 
him  about  Mr.  Perriam.  That  gentleman  be- 
came therefore  a  kind  of  flourishing  public 
secret,  out  of  the  depths  of  which  governess 
and  pupil  looked  at  each  other  portentously 
from  the  time  their  friend  was  restored  to 
them.  He  was  restored  in  great  abundance, 
and  it  was  marked  that  though  he  appeared 
to  have  felt  the  need  to  take  a  stand  against 
the  risk  of  being  too  roughly  saddled  with 
the  offspring  of  others,  he  at  this  period  ex- 
posed himself  more  than  ever  before  to  the 
presumption  of  having  created  expectations. 
If  it  had  become  now,  for  that  matter,  a 
question  of  sides,  there  was  at  least  a  certain 
amount  of  evidence  as  to  where  they  all  were. 
Maisie,  of  course,  in  such  a  delicate  position, 
was  on  nobody's ;  but  Sir  Claude  had  all  the 
air  of  being  on  hers.  If  therefore  Mrs. 
Wix  was  on  Sir  Claude's,  her  ladyship  on  Mr. 


122      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Perriam's,  and  Mr.  Perriam  presumably  on 
her  ladyship's,  this  left  only  Mrs.  Beale  and 
Mr.  Farange  to  account  for.  Mrs.  Beale 
clearly  was,  like  Sir  Claude,  on  Maisie's,  and 
papa,  it  was  to  be  supposed,  on  Mrs.  Beale's. 
Here  indeed  was  a  slight  ambiguity,  as  papa's 
being  on  Mrs.  Beale's  did  n't  somehow  seem 
to  place  him  quite  on  his  daughter's.  It 
sounded,  as  this  young  lady  thought  it  over, 
very  much  like  puss-in-the-corner,  and  she 
could  only  wonder  if  the  distribution  of  par- 
ties would  lead  to  a  rushing  to  and  fro  and  a 
changing  of  places.  She  was  in  the  presence, 
she  felt,  of  restless  change.  Wasn't  it  rest- 
less enough  that  her  mother  and  her  step- 
father should  already  be  on  different  sides? 
That  was  the  great  thing  that  had  domesti- 
cally happened.  Mrs.  Wix,  besides,  had 
turned  another  face;  she  had  never  been 
exactly  gay,  but  her  gravity  was  now  an  atti- 
tude as  conspicuous  as  a  poster.  She  seemed 
to  sit  there  in  her  new  dress  and  brood  over 
her  lost  delicacy,  which  had  become  almost 
as  doleful  a  memory  as  that  of  poor  Clara 
Matilda.  "  It  is  hard  for  him,"  she  often 
said  to  her  companion ;  and  it  was  surprising 
how  competent  on  this  point  Maisie  was  con- 
scious of  being  to  agree  with  her.  Hard  as 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      123 

it  was,  however,  Sir  Claude  had  never  shown 
to  greater  advantage  than  in  the  gallant,  gene- 
rous, sociable  way  he  carried  it  off — away 
that  drew  from  Mrs.  Wix  a  hundred  expres- 
sions of  relief  at  his  not  having  suffered  it  to 
embitter  him.  It  threw  him  more  and  more, 
at  last,  into  the  schoolroom,  where  he  had 
plainly  begun  to  recognize  that  if  he  was 
to  have  the  credit  of  perverting  the  innocent 
child  he  might  also  at  least  have  the 
amusement.  He  never  came  into  the  place 
without  telling  its  occupants  that  they  were 
the  nicest  people  in  the  house  —  a  remark 
which  always  led  them  to  say  to  each  other, 
"  Mr.  Perriam  !  "  as  loud  as  ever  compressed 
lips  and  enlarged  eyes  could  make  them 
articulate.  He  caused  Maisie  to  remember 
what  she  had  said  to  Mrs.  Beale  about  his 
having  the  nature  of  a  good  nurse  and  — 
rather  more  than  she  intended  before  Mrs. 
Wix  —  to  bring  the  whole  thing  out  by  once 
remarking  to  him  that  none  of  her  good  nurses 
had  smoked  quite  so  much  in  the  nursery. 
This  had  no  more  effect  than  it  was  meant  to 
on  his  cigarettes :  he  was  always  smoking, 
but  always  declaring  that  it  was  death  to  him 
not  to  lead  a  domestic  life. 

He  led  one,  after  all,  in  the  schoolroom, 


i24      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

and  there  were  hours  of  late  evening,  when 
she  had  gone  to  bed,  that  Maisie  knew  he  sat 
there  talking  with  Mrs.  Wix  of  how  to  meet 
his  difficulties.  His  consideration  for  this 
unfortunate  woman  even  in  the  midst  of 
them  continued  to  show  him  as  the  perfect 
gentleman  and  lifted  the  object  of  his  cour- 
tesy into  an  upper  air  of  beatitude  in  which 
her  very  pride  had  the  hush  of  anxiety. 
"  He  leans  on  me  —  he  leans  on  me !  "  she 
only  announced  from  time  to  time  ;  and  she 
was  more  surprised  than  amused  when,  later 
on,  she  accidentally  found  she  had  given  her 
pupil  the  impression  of  a  support  literally 
supplied  by  her  person.  This  glimpse  of  a 
misconception  led  her  to  be  explicit  —  to 
put  before  the  child,  with  an  air  of  mourning 
indeed  for  such  a  stoop  to  the  common,  that 
what  they  talked  about  in  the  small  hours,  as 
they  said,  was  the  question  of  his  taking  right 
hold  of  life.  The  life  she  wanted  him  to  take 
right  hold  of  was  the  public ;  "  she,"  I  hasten 
to  add,  was,  in  this  connection,  not  the  mistress 
of  his  fate,  but  only  Mrs.  Wix  herself.  She 
had  phrases  about  him  that  were  full  of  ten- 
derness, yet  full  of  morality.  "  He 's  a  won- 
derful nature,  but  he  can't  live  like  the  lilies. 
He 's  all  right)  you  know,  but  he  must  have  a 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       125 

high  interest."  She  had  more  than  once  re- 
marked that  his  affairs  were  sadly  involved, 
but  that  they  must  get  him  —  Maisie  and  she 
together  apparently — into  Parliament.  The 
child  took  it  from  her  with  a  flutter  of  impor- 
tance that  Parliament  was  his  natural  sphere, 
and  she  was  the  less  prepared  to  recognize  a 
hindrance  as  she  had  never  heard  of  any 
affairs  whatever  that  were  not  involved.  She 
had,  in  the  old  days,  once  been  told  by  Mrs. 
Beale  that  her  very  own  were,  and,  with  the 
refreshment  of  knowing  that  she  had  affairs, 
the  information  had  n't  in  the  least  over- 
whelmed her.  It  was  true,  and  perhaps  a  little 
alarming,  that  she  had  never  heard  of  any 
such  matters  since  then.  Full  of  charm,  at 
any  rate,  was  the  prospect  of  some  day  get- 
ting Sir  Claude  in ;  especially  after  Mrs. 
Wix,  as  the  fruit  of  more  midnight  colloquies, 
once  went  so  far  as  to  observe  that  she  really 
believed  it  was  all  that  was  wanted  to  save 
him.  Mrs.  Wix,  with  these  words,  struck  her 
pupil  as  cropping  up,  after  the  manner  of 
mamma  when  mamma  talked,  quite  in  a  new 
place ;  and  the  child  stared  as  at  the  jump  of 
a  kangaroo. 

"  Save  him  from  what?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  hesitated  ;  then  she  covered  a 


126      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

still  greater  distance.     "  Why,  my  dear,  just 
from  awful  misery." 


XII 

SHE  had  at  the  moment  not  explained  her 
ominous  speech,  but  the  light  of  remarkable 
events  soon  enabled  her  companion  to  read 
it.  It  may  indeed  be  said  that  these  days 
brought  on  a  high  quickening  of  Maisie's 
direct  perceptions,  of  her  gratified  sense  of 
arriving  by  herself  at  conclusions.  This  was 
helped  by  an  emotion  intrinsically  far  from 
sweet  —  the  increase  of  the  alarm  that  had 
most  haunted  her  meditations.  She  had  no 
need  to  be  told,  as  on  the  morrow  of  the 
revelation  of  Sir  Claude's  danger  she  was  told 
by  Mrs.  Wix,  that  her  mother  wanted  more 
and  more  to  know  why  the  devil  her  father 
did  n't  send  for  her.  She  had  too  long  ex- 
pected that  mamma's  curiosity  on  this  point 
would  break  out  with  violence.  Maisie  could 
meet  such  pressure  so  far  as  meeting  it  was 
to  be  in  a  position  to  reply,  in  words  directly 
inspired,  that  papa  would  be  hanged  before 
he  'd  again  be  saddled  with  her.  She  there- 
fore recognized  the  hour  that  in  troubled 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      127 

glimpses  she  had  long  foreseen,  the  hour 
when  —  the  phrase  for  it  came  back  to  her 
from  Mrs.  Beale  —  with  two  fathers,  two 
mothers  and  two  homes,  six  protections  in 
all,  she  should  n't  know  "  wherever  "  to  go. 
Such  apprehension  as  she  felt  on  this  score 
was  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Wix 
herself  was  suddenly  white  with  terror  —  a 
circumstance  leading  Maisie  to  the  further 
knowledge  that  this  lady  was  still  more 
scared  on  her  own  behalf  than  on  that  of  her 
pupil.  A  governess  who  had  only  one  frock 
was  not  likely  to  have  either  two  fathers  or 
two  mothers ;  accordingly,  if  even  with  these 
resources  Maisie  was  to  be  in  the  streets, 
where  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  dreadful 
was  poor  Mrs.  Wix  to  be?  She  had  had, 
it  appeared,  a  tremendous  brush  with  Ida, 
which  had  begun  and  ended  with  the  request 
that  she  would  be  pleased,  on  the  spot,  to 
"  bundle."  It  had  come  suddenly,  but  com- 
pletely, this  signal  of  which  she  had  gone  in 
fear.  The  companions  confessed  to  each 
other  their  long  foreboding,  but  Mrs.  Wix 
was  better  off  than  Maisie  in  having  a  plan 
of  defence.  She  declined  indeed  to  commu- 
nicate it  till  it  was  quite  mature ;  but  mean- 
while, she  hastened  to  declare,  her  feet  were 


128      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

firm  in  the  schoolroom.  They  could  only  be 
loosened  by  force  ;  she  would  "  leave  "  for  the 
police,  perhaps,  but  she  would  n't  "  leave " 
for  mere  outrage.  That  would  be  to  play 
her  ladyship's  game,  and  it  would  take 
another  turn  of  the  screw  to  make  her  desert 
her  darling.  Her  ladyship  had  come  down 
with  extraordinary  ferocity :  it  had  been  one 
of  many  symptoms  of  a  situation  strained  — 
"  between  them  all,"  as  Mrs.  Wix  said,  "  but 
especially  between  the  two  "  —  to  the  point 
of  God  only  knew  what ! 

Her  description  of  the  crisis  made  the  child 
reflect.  "Between  which  two?  —  papa  and 
mamma?" 

"  Dear,  no.  I  mean  between  your  mother 
and  him" 

Maisie,  in  this,  recognized  an  opportunity 
to  be  really  deep.  "  Him?  —  Mr.  Perriam?  " 

She  fairly  brought  a  blush  to  the  scared 
face.  "  Well,  my  dear,  I  must  say  that  what 
you  don't  know  ain't  worth  mentioning. 
That  it  won't  go  on  forever  with  Mr.  Perriam 
—  since  I  must  meet  you  —  who  can  sup- 
pose? But  I  meant  dear  Sir  Claude." 

Maisie  stood  corrected  rather  than  abashed. 
"I  see.  But  it's  about  Mr.  Perriam  he's 
angry?" 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      129 

Mrs.  Wix  hesitated.  "  He  says  he 's 
not." 

"  Not  angry?     He  has  told  you  so?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  at  her  hard.  "  Not  about 
him." 

"  Then  about  some  one  else?" 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  at  her  harder.  "About 
some  one  else." 

"  Lord  Eric?  "  the  child  promptly  brought 
forth. 

At  this,  of  a  sudden,  her  governess  was 
more  agitated.  "  Oh,  why,  little  unfortunate, 
should  we  discuss  their  dreadful  names?"  — 
and  she  threw  herself  for  the  millionth  time 
on  Maisie's  neck.  It  took  her  pupil  but  a 
moment  to  feel  that  she  quivered  with  insecu- 
rity, and,  the  contact  of  her  terror  aiding,  the 
pair,  in  another  instant,  were  sobbing  in  each 
other's  arms.  Then  it  was  that,  completely 
relaxed,  demoralized  as  she  had  never  been, 
Mrs.  Wix  suffered  her  wound  to  bleed  and 
her  resentment  to  gush.  Her  great  bitter- 
ness was  that  Ida  had  called  her  false,  de- 
nounced her  hypocrisy  and  duplicity,  reviled 
her  spying  and  tattling,  her  lying  and  grovel- 
ling to  Sir  Claude.  "  Me,  me  ! "  the  poor 
woman  wailed,  "  who  Ve  seen  what  I  Ve  seen 
and  gone  through  everything  only  to  cover 
9 


130      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

her  up  and  ease  her  off  and  smooth  her 
down !  If  I  Ve  been  an  'ipocrite  it 's  the 
other  way  round :  I  Ve  pretended  to  him  and 
to  her,  to  myself  and  to  you  and  to  every 
one,  not  to  see !  It  serves  me  right  to  have 
held  my  tongue  before  such  horrors  !  "  What 
horrors  they  were  her  companion  forbore 
too  closely  to  inquire,  showing  even  signs 
not  a  few  of  an  ability  to  take  them  for 
granted.  That  put  the  couple  more  than 
ever,  in  this  troubled  sea,  in  the  same  boat, 
so  that  with  the  consciousness  of  ideas  on 
the  part  of  her  fellow-mariner  Maisie  could 
sit  close  and  wait.  Sir  Claude  on  the  morrow 
came  in  to  tea,  and  then  the  ideas  were  pro- 
duced. It  was  extraordinary  how  the  child's 
presence  drew  out  their  full  richness.  The 
principal  one  was  startling,  but  Maisie  appre- 
ciated the  courage  with  which  her  governess 
handled  it.  It  simply  consisted  of  the  pro- 
posal that  whenever  and  wherever  they 
should  take  refuge  Sir  Claude  should  consent 
to  share  their  asylum.  On  his  protesting 
with  all  the  warmth  in  nature  against  this 
note  of  secession  she  asked  what  else  in  the 
world  was  left  to  them  if  her  ladyship  should 
stop  supplies. 

"  Supplies  be  hanged,  my  dear  woman !  " 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      131 

said  their  delightful  friend.  "  Leave  supplies 
to  me  —  I  '11  take  care  of  supplies." 

Mrs.  Wix  hesitated.  "Well,  it's  exactly 
because  I  knew  you  'd  be  so  glad  to  do  so 
that  I  put  the  question  before  you.  There  's 
a  way  to  look  after  us  better  than  any  other. 
That  way  is  just  to  come  with  us." 

It  hung  before  Maisie,  Mrs.  Wix's  way, 
like  a  glittering  picture,  and  she  clasped  her 
hands  in  ecstasy.  "Come  with  us  —  come 
with  us !  "  she  echoed. 

Sir  Claude  looked  from  his  stepdaughter 
back  to  her  governess.  "  Do  you  mean 
leave  this  house  and  take  up  my  abode  with 
you?" 

"It  will  be  the  right  thing — if  you  feel 
as  you  Ve  told  me  you  feel."  Mrs.  Wix,  sus- 
tained and  uplifted,  was  now  as  clear  as  a 
bell. 

Sir  Claude  had  the  air  of  trying  to  recall 
what  he  had  told  her;  then  the  light  broke 
that  was  always  breaking  to  make  his  face 
more  pleasant.  "  It 's  your  suggestion  that 
I  shall  take  a  house  for  you?" 

"  For  the  wretched  homeless  child.  Any 
roof — over  our  heads  —  will  do  for  us;  but 
of  course  for  you  it  will  have  to  be  something 
really  nice." 


132      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

Sir  Claude's  eyes  reverted  to  Maisie  rather 
hard,  as  she  thought ;  and  there  was  a  shade 
in  his  very  smile  that  seemed  to  show  her  — 
though  she  also  felt  it  didn't  show  Mrs.  Wix 
—  that  the  accommodation  prescribed  must 
loom  to  him  pretty  large.  The  next  mo- 
ment, however,  he  laughed  gayly  enough. 
"  My  dear  lady,  you  exaggerate  tremen- 
dously my  poor  little  needs."  Mrs.  Wix  had 
once  mentioned  to  her  young  friend  that 
when  Sir  Claude  called  her  his  dear  lady 
he  could  do  anything  with  her;  and  Maisie 
felt  a  certain  anxiety  to  see  what  he  would 
do  now.  Well,  he  only  addressed  her  a 
remark  of  which  the  child  herself  was  aware 
of  feeling  the  force.  "  Your  plan  appeals 
to  me  immensely;  but  of  course  —  don't 
you  see  ?  —  I  shall  have  to  consider  the  posi- 
tion I  put  myself  in  by  leaving  my  wife." 

"  You  '11  also  have  to  remember,"  Mrs. 
Wix  replied,  "  that  if  you  don't  look  out 
your  wife  won't  give  you  time  to  consider. 
Her  ladyship  will  leave  you'' 

"  Ah,  my  good  friend,  I  do  look  out," 
the  young  man  returned  while  Maisie  helped 
herself  afresh  to  bread  and  butter.  "  Of 
course  if  that  happens  I  shall  have  somehow 
to  turn  round ;  but  I  hope  with  all  my  heart 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       133 

it  won't.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  continued 
to  his  stepdaughter,  "for  appearing  to  dis- 
cuss that  sort  of  possibility  under  your  sharp 
little  nose.  But  the  fact  is  that  I  forget  half 
the  time  that  Ida  is  your  sainted  mother." 

"  So  do  I !  "  said  Maisie,  to  put  him  the 
more  in  the  right. 

Her  protectress,  at  this,  was  upon  her 
again.  "  The  little  desolate,  precious  pet !  " 
For  the  rest  of  the  conversation  she  was 
enclosed  in  Mrs.  Wix's  arms,  and  as  they 
sat  there  interlocked  Sir  Claude,  before  them 
with  his  teacup,  looked  down  at  them  in 
deepening  thought.  Shrink  together  as  they 
might  they  could  n't  help,  Maisie  felt,  being 
a  very  massive  image,  a  large,  loose,  ponder- 
ous presentment  of  what  Mrs.  Wix  required 
of  him.  She  knew  moreover  that  this  lady 
did  n't  make  it  better  by  adding  in  a  moment : 
"  Of  course  we  should  n't  dream  of  a  whole 
house.  Any  sort  of  little  lodging,  however 
humble,  would  be  only  too  blessed." 

"  But  it  would  have  to  be  something  that 
would  hold  us  all,"  said  Sir  Claude. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Wix  concurred ;  "  the 
whole  point  is  our  being  together.  While 
you  're  waiting,  before  you  act,  for  her  lady- 
ship to  take  some  step,  our  position  here 


134      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

will  come  to  an  impossible  pass.  You  don't 
know  what  I  went  through  with  her  for  you 
yesterday — and  for  our  poor  darling;  but 
it's  not  a  thing  I  can  promise  you  often 
to  face  again.  She  has  dismissed  me  in 
horrible  language  —  she  has  instructed  the 
servants  not  to  wait  on  me." 

"  Oh,  the  poor  servants  are  all  right !  "  Sir 
Claude  eagerly  cried. 

"  They  're  certainly  better  than  their  mis- 
tress !  It 's  too  dreadful  that  I  should  sit 
here  and  say  of  your  wife,  Sir  Claude,  and 
of  Maisie's  own  mother,  that  she's  lower 
than  a  domestic;  but  my  being  betrayed 
into  such  remarks  is  just  a  reason  the  more 
for  our  getting  away.  I  shall  stay  till  I  'm 
taken  by  the  shoulders,  but  that  may  happen 
any  day.  What  also  may  perfectly  happen, 
you  must  permit  me  to  repeat,  is  that  she  '11 
go  off  to  get  rid  of  us." 

"  Oh,  if  she  '11  only  do  that !  "  Sir  Claude 
laughed.  "That  would  be  the  very  making 
of  us !  " 

"Don't  say  it—don't  say  it!  "  Mrs.  Wix 
pleaded.  "  Don't  speak  of  anything  so  fatal ! 
You  know  what  I  mean.  We  must  all  cling 
to  the  right.  You  must  n't  be  bad." 

Sir  Claude  set  down  his  teacup ;   he  had 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      135 

become  more  grave  and  he  pensively  wiped 
his  moustache.  "  Won't  all  the  world  say 
I  'm  awful  if  I  leave  the  house  before  — 
before  she  has  bolted?  They'll  say  it  was 
my  doing  that  made  her  bolt." 

Maisie  could  grasp  the  force  of  this  rea- 
soning, but  it  offered  no  check  to  Mrs.  Wix. 
"  Why  need  you  mind  that  —  if  you  Ve  done 
it  for  so  high  a  motive  ?  Think  of  the  beauty 
of  it,"  the  good  lady  pressed. 

"  Of  bolting  with  you?"  Sir  Claude  ejacu- 
lated. 

She  faintly  smiled  —  she  even  faintly  col- 
ored. "  So  far  from  doing  you  harm  it  will 
do  you  the  highest  good.  Sir  Claude,  if 
you  '11  listen  to  me,  it  will  save  you." 

"  Save  me  from  what?  " 

Maisie,  at  this  question,  waited  with  re- 
newed suspense  for  an  answer  that  would 
bring  the  thing  to  a  finer  point  than  their 
companion  had  brought  it  to  before.  But 
there  was,  on  the  contrary,  only  more  mys- 
tification in  Mrs.  Wix's  reply.  "Ah,  from 
you  know  what !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  from  some  other  woman?" 

"  Yes  —  from  a  real  bad  one." 

Sir  Claude,  at  least,  the  child  could  see, 
was  not  mystified;  so  little,  indeed,  that  a 


136      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

smile  of  intelligence  broke  afresh  in  his 
eyes.  He  turned  them  in  vague  discomfort 
to  Maisie,  and  then  something  in  the  way 
she  met  them  caused  him  to  chuck  her 
playfully  under  the  chin.  It  was  not  till 
after  this  that  he  good-naturedly  met  Mrs. 
Wix.  "You  think  me  worse  than  I  am." 

"If  that  were  true,"  she  returned,  "I 
would  n't  appeal  to  you.  I  do,  Sir  Claude, 
in  the  name  of  all  that 's  good  in  you  — 
and,  oh,  so  earnestly!  We  can  help  each 
other.  What  you  '11  do  for  our  young  friend 
here  I  need  n't  say.  That  is  n't  even  what  I 
want  to  speak  of  now.  What  I  want  to  speak 
of  is  what  you'll  get — don't  you  see?  — 
from  such  an  opportunity  to  take  hold. 
Take  hold  of  us  —  take  hold  of  her.  Make 
her  your  duty  —  make  her  your  life :  she  '11 
repay  you  a  thousand-fold  !  " 

It  was  to  Mrs.  Wix,  during  this  appeal, 
that  Maisie's  contemplation  transferred  it- 
self—  partly  because,  though  her  heart  was 
in  her  throat  for  trepidation,  she  felt  a  cer- 
tain delicacy  about  appearing  herself  to  press 
the  question ;  partly  from  the  coercion  of 
seeing  Mrs.  Wix  come  out  as  Mrs.  Wix 
had  never  come  before  —  not  even  on  the 
day  of  her  call  at  Mrs.  Beale's  with  the  news 


WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW       137 

of  her   mamma's    marriage.       On   that   day 
Mrs.    Beale   had    surpassed   her   in   dignity ; 
but  nobody  could  have  surpassed  her  now. 
There  was,  in  fact  at  this  moment  a  fasci- 
nation for  her  pupil  in  the  hint  she  seemed 
to  give  that  she  had  still  more  of  that  sur- 
prise  behind.     So    the    sharpened   sense    of 
spectatorship  was  the  child's  main  support  — 
the  long  habit,  from  the  first,  of  seeing  her- 
self in   discussion,  and   finding  in  the  fury 
of  it — she  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  game 
of  football  —  a  sort  of  compensation  for  the 
doom  of  a  peculiar  passivity.     It  gave  her 
often  an  odd  air  of  being  present  at  her  his- 
tory in  as  separate  a  mode  as  if  she  could 
only   get    at    experience    by    flattening   her 
nose  against  a  pane  of  glass.     Such  she  felt 
to  be  the  application  of  her  nose  while  she 
waited  for  the  effect  of  Mrs.  Wix's  eloquence. 
Sir  Claude,  however,  did  n't  keep  her  long  in 
a  position  so  ungraceful:    he  sat  down  and 
opened  his  arms  to  her  as  he  had  done  the 
day  he  came  for  her  at  her  father's,  and  while 
he  held  her  there,  looking  at  her  kindly,  but 
as  if  their  companion  had  brought  the  blood 
a  good  deal  to  his  face,  he  said :   "  Dear  Mrs. 
Wix   is   magnificent,   but    she's    rather   too 
grand  about  it.     I  mean  the  situation  isn't 


138      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

after  all  quite  so  desperate  or  quite  so  sim- 
ple. But  I  give  you  my  word  before  her, 
and  I  give  it  to  her  before  you,  that  I  '11 
never,  never  forsake  you.  Do  you  hear  that, 
old  fellow?  and  do  you  take  it  in?  I  '11 
stick  to  you  through  everything."  Maisie 
did  take  it  in  —  took  it  with  a  lang  tremor 
of  all  her  little  being;  and  then,  as,  to 
emphasize  it,  he  drew  her  closer,  she  buried 
her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  cried  without 
sound  and  without  pain.  While  she  was 
so  engaged  she  became  aware  that  his  own 
breast  was  agitated,  and  gathered  from  it 
with  rapture  that  his  tears  were  as  silently 
flowing.  Presently  she  heard  a  loud  sob 
from  Mrs.  Wix  —  Mrs.  Wix  was  the  only 
one  who  made  a  noise. 

She  was  to  have  made,  for  some  time, 
none  other  but  this,  though  within  a  few 
days,  in  conversation  with  her  pupil,  she 
described  her  relations  with  Ida  as  posi- 
tively excruciating.  There  was  as  yet  never- 
theless no  attempt  to  eject  her  by  force,  and 
she  recognized  that  Sir  Claude,  taking  such 
a  stand  as  never  before,  had  intervened  with 
passion  and  success.  As  Maisie  remembered 
—  and  remembered  wholly  without  disdain  — 
that  he  had  told  her  he  was  afraid  of  her 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      139 

ladyship,  the  little  girl  took  this  act  of  reso- 
lution as  a  proof  of  what,  in  the  spirit  of  the 
engagement  sealed  by  all  their  tears,  he  was 
really  prepared  to  do.  Mrs.  Wix  spoke  to 
her  of  the  pecuniary  sacrifice  by  which  she 
herself  purchased  the  scant  security  she  en- 
joyed and  which,  if  it  was  a  defence  against 
the  hand  of  violence,  was  far  from  making 
her  safe  from  private  aggression.  Didn't 
her  ladyship  find  every  hour  of  the  day 
some  insidious  means  to  humiliate  and  tram- 
ple upon  her?  There  was  a  quarter's  salary 
owing  her  —  a  great  name,  even  Maisie  could 
suspect,  for  a  small  matter :  she  should  never 
see  it  as  long  as  she  lived,  but  keeping  quiet 
about  it  put  her  ladyship,  thank  Heaven,  a 
little  in  one's  power.  Now  that  he  was  do- 
ing so  much  else  she  could  never  have  the 
grossness  to  apply  for  it  to  Sir  Claude.  He 
had  sent  home  for  schoolroom  consumption 
a  huge  frosted  cake,  a  wonderful  delectable 
mountain  with  geological  strata  of  jam,  which 
might  with  economy  see  them  through  many 
days  of  their  siege ;  but  it  was  none  the  less 
known  to  Mrs.  Wix  that  his  affairs  were 
more  and  more  involved,  and  her  fellow-par- 
taker looked  back  tenderly,  in  the  light  of 
these  involutions,  at  the  expression  of  face 


140      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

with  which  he  had  greeted  the  proposal 
that  he  should  set  up  another  establishment. 
Maisie  felt  that  if  their  maintenance  should 
hang  but  by  a  thread  they  must  still  demean 
themselves  with  the  highest  delicacy.  What 
he  was  doing  was  simply  acting  without 
delay,  so  far  as  his  embarrassments  per- 
mitted, on  the  inspiration  of  his  elder  friend. 
There  was  at  this  season  a  wonderful  month 
of  May —  as  soft  as  a  drop  of  the  wind 
in  a  gale  that  had  kept  one  awake  —  when 
he  took  out  his  stepdaughter  with  a  fresh 
alacrity  and  they  rambled  the  great  town  in 
search,  as  Mrs.  Wix  called  it,  of  combined 
amusement  and  instruction. 

They  rode  on  the  top  of  'busses ;  they  vis- 
ited outlying  parks;  they  went  to  cricket- 
matches  where  Maisie  fell  asleep ;  they  tried 
a  hundred  places  for  the  best  one  to  have 
tea:  this  was  his  direct  way  of  rising  to 
Mrs.  Wix's  admirable  lesson  —  of  making 
his  little  accepted  charge  his  duty  and  his 
life.  They  dropped,  under  incontrollable  im- 
pulses, into  shops  that  they  agreed  were  too 
big,  to  look  at  things  that  they  agreed  were 
too  small,  and  it  was  during  these  hours  that 
Mrs.  Wix,  alone  at  home,  but  a  subject  of 
regretful  reference  as  they  pulled  off  their 


MAISIE    KNEW      141 

gloves  for  refreshment,  subsequently  de- 
scribed herself  as  most  exposed  to  the  blows 
that  her  ladyship  had  achieved  such  inge- 
nuity in  dealing.  She  again  and  again  re- 
peated that  she  would  not  so  much  have 
minded  having  her  "  attainments "  held  up 
to  scorn  and  her  knowledge  of  every  subject 
denied  if  she  were  not  habitually  denounced 
to  her  face  as  the  basest  of  her  sex.  There 
was  by  this  time  no  pretence  on  the  part 
of  any  one  of  denying  it  to  be  fortunate 
that  her  ladyship  habitually  left  London 
every  Saturday  and  was  more  and  more  dis- 
posed to  a  return  late  in  the  week.  It  was 
almost  equally  public  that  she  regarded  as 
a  preposterous  "pose"  and  indeed  as  a 
direct  insult  to  herself  her  husband's  atti- 
tude of  staying  behind  to  look  after  a  child 
for  whom  the  most  elaborate  provision  had 
been  made.  If  there  was  a  type  Ida  de- 
spised, Sir  Claude  communicated  to  Maisie, 
it  was  the  man  who  pottered  about  town  of 
a  Sunday ;  and  he  also  mentioned  how  often 
she  had  declared  to  him  that  if  he  had  a  grain 
of  spirit  he  would  be  ashamed  to  accept  a 
menial  position  about  Mr.  Farange's  daughter. 
It  was  her  ladyship's  contention  that  he  was 
in  craven  fear  of  his  predecessor  —  otherwise 


142      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

he  would  recognize  it  as  an  obligation  of 
plain  decency  to  protect  his  wife  against  the 
outrage  of  that  person's  barefaced  attempt 
to  swindle  her.  The  swindle  was  that  Mr. 
Farange  put  upon  her  the  whole  intolerable 
burden ;  "  and  even  when  I  pay  for  you  my- 
self," Sir  Claude  averred  to  his  young  friend, 
"  she  accuses  me  the  more  of  truckling  and 
grovelling."  It  was  Mrs.  Wix's  conviction, 
they  both  knew,  arrived  at  on  independent 
grounds,  that  Ida's  weekly  excursions  were 
feelers  for  a  more  considerable  absence.  If 
she  came  back  later  each  week  the  week 
would  be  sure  to  arrive  when  she  would  n't 
come  back  at  all.  This  appearance  had  of 
course  much  to  do  with  Mrs.  Wix's  actual 
valor.  Could  they  but  hold  out  long 
enough  the  snug  little  home  with  Sir  Claude 
would  find  itself  informally  constituted. 


XIII 

THIS  might  moreover  have  been  taken  to  be 
the  sense  of  a  remark  made  by  her  step- 
father as  —  one  rainy  day  when  the  streets 
were  all  splash  and  two  umbrellas  unsociable 
and  the  wanderers  had  sought  shelter  in  the 


WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW      143 

National  Gallery  —  Maisie  sat  beside  him 
staring  rather  sightlessly  at  a  roomful  of 
pictures  which  he  had  mystified  her  much 
by  speaking  of  with  a  bored  sigh  as  a 
"  silly  superstition."  They  represented,  with 
patches  of  gold  and  cataracts  of  purple,  with 
stiff  saints  and  angular  angels,  with  ugly 
Madonnas  and  uglier  babies,  strange  prayers 
and  prostrations;  so  that  she  at  first  took 
his  words  for  a  protest  against  devotional 
idolatry  —  all  the  more  that  he  had  of  late 
come  often  with  her  and  with  Mrs.  Wix  to 
morning  church,  a  place  of  worship  of  Mrs. 
Wix's  own  choosing,  where  there  was  noth- 
ing of  that  sort,  no  halos  on  heads,  but  only, 
during  long  sermons,  beguiling  backs  of  bon- 
nets, and  where,  as  her  governess  always 
afterwards  observed,  he  gave  the  most  ear- 
nest attention.  It  presently  appeared,  how- 
ever, that  his  reference  was  merely  to  the 
affectation  of  admiring  such  ridiculous  works 
—  an  admonition  that  she  received  from  him 
as  submissively  as  she  received  everything. 
What  turn  it  gave  to  their  talk  need  not  here 
be  recorded:  the  transition  to  the  colorless 
schoolroom  and  lonely  Mrs.  Wix  was  doubt- 
less an  effect  of  relaxed  interest  in  what  was 
before  them.  Maisie  expressed  in  her  own 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

way  the  truth  that  she  never  went  home 
nowadays  without  expecting  to  find  the 
temple  of  her  studies  empty  and  the  poor 
priestess  cast  out.  This  conveyed  a  full 
appreciation  of  her  peril,  and  it  was  in  re- 
joinder that  Sir  Claude  uttered,  acknowledg- 
ing the  source  of  that  peril,  the  reassurance 
at  which  I  have  glanced.  "  Don't  be  afraid, 
my  dear :  I  Ve  squared  her."  It  required 
indeed  a  supplement  when  he  saw  that  it 
left  the  child  momentarily  blank.  "  I  mean 
that  your  mother  lets  me  do  what  I  want  so 
long  as  I  let  her  do  what  she  wants." 

"So  you  are  doing  what  you  want?" 
Maisie  asked. 

"Rather,  Miss  Farange." 

Miss  Farange  turned  it  over.  "  And  she 's 
doing  the  same?  " 

"Up  to  the  hilt." 

Again  she  considered.  "  Then,  please, 
what  may  it  be?  " 

"  I  would  n't  tell  you  for  the  whole  world." 

She  gazed  at  a  gaunt  Madonna ;  after  which 
she  broke  out  into  a  slow  smile.  "  Well,  I 
don't  care  —  so  long  as  you  do  let  her !  " 

"  Oh,  you  monster !  "  laughed  Sir  Claude, 
getting  up. 

Another  day,  in  another  place,  a  place  in 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      145 

Baker  Street,  where  at  a  hungry  hour  she 
had  sat  down  with  him  to  tea  and  buns,  he 
brought  out  a  question  disconnected  from 
previous  talk.  "  I  say,  you  know  —  what  do 
you  suppose  your  father  would  do  ?  " 

Maisie  had  not  long  to  cast  about  nor  to 
question  his  pleasant  eyes.  "  If  you  were 
really  to  go  with  us?  He  would  make  a 
great  complaint." 

He  seemed  amused  at  the  term  she 
employed.  "  Oh,  I  should  n't  mind  a 
'  complaint' " 

"  He  would  talk  to  every  one  about  it," 
said  Maisie. 

"  Well,  I  should  n't  mind  that  either." 

"  Of  course  not,"  the  child  hastened  to 
respond.  "  You  Ve  told  me  you  're  not  afraid 
of  him." 

"  The  question  is,  are  you  f "  said  Sir 
Claude. 

Maisie  candidly  considered;  then  she 
spoke  resolutely.  "  No  —  not  of  papa." 

"  But  of  somebody  else?  " 

"  Certainly,  of  lots  of  people." 

"Of  your  mother,  first  and  foremost,  of 
course." 

"Dear,  yes;  more  of  mamma  than  of — 
than  of—" 

10 


146      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  Than  of  what?"  Sir  Claude  asked  as  she 
hesitated  for  a  comparison. 

She  thought  over  all  the  objects  of  dread. 
"  Than  of  a  wild  elephant !  "  she  at  last  sug- 
gested. "  And  you  are  too/'  she  reminded 
him  as  he  laughed. 

"  Oh,  yes ;   I  am  too." 

Again  she  meditated.  "  Then  why  did 
you  marry  her?  " 

"  Just  because  I  was  afraid." 

"  Even  when  she  loved  you?  " 

"  That  made  her  the  more  alarming !  " 

For  Maisie  herself,  though  her  companion 
seemed  to  find  it  droll,  this  opened  up  depths 
of  gravity.  "  More  alarming  than  she  is 
now?" 

"  Well,  in  a  different  way.  Alarm,  unfor- 
tunately, is  a  very  big  thing,  and  there's  a 
great  variety  of  kinds." 

She  took  this  in  with  complete  intelligence. 
"  Then  I  think  I  Ve  got  them  all." 

"You?"  her  friend  cried.  "Nonsense! 
You  're  thoroughly  game." 

"  I  Jm  awfully  afraid  of  Mrs.  Beale,"  Maisie 
insisted. 

He  raised  his  smooth  brows.  "  That 
charming  woman?" 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  you  can't  under- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       147 

stand  it,  because  you're  not  in  the  same 
state." 

She  had  been  going  on  with  a  luminous 
"  But,"  when,  across  the  table,  he  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm.  "  I  can  understand  it,"  he 
confessed.  "  I  am  in  the  same  state." 

"  Oh,  but  she  likes  you  so  !  "  Maisie  eagerly 
argued. 

Sir  Claude  literally  colored.  "That  has 
something  to  do  with  it." 

Maisie  wondered  again.  "  Being  liked 
with  being  afraid?" 

"  Yes  ;  when  it  amounts  to  adoration." 

"  Then  why  are  n't  you  afraid  of  me?" 

"Because  with  you  it  amounts  to  that?  " 
He  had  kept  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Well, 
what  prevents  is  simply  that  you  're  the 
gentlest  spirit  on  earth.  Besides  — "  he 
pursued;  but  he  came  to  a  pause. 

"Besides—?" 

"  I  should  be  in  fear  if  you  were  older  — 
there  !  See  ?  —  you  already  make  me  talk 
nonsense,"  the  young  man  added.  "The 
question  's  about  your  father.  Is  he  likewise 
afraid  of  Mrs.  Beale?" 

"  I  think  not.  And  yet  he  loves  her," 
Maisie  mused. 

"  Oh,  no  —  he  does  n't ;  not  a  bit !  "    After 


148      WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

which,  as  his  companion  stared,  Sir  Claude 
apparently  felt  that  he  must  make  his 
announcement  fit  with  her  recollections. 
"  There  's  nothing  of  that  sort  now." 

But  Maisie  only  stared  the  more. 
"They've  changed?" 

"  Like  your  mother  and  me." 

She  wondered  how  he  knew.  "  Then 
you  Ve  seen  Mrs.  Beale  again?  " 

He  hesitated.  "  Oh,  no.  She  has  written 
to  me,"  he  presently  pursued.  "She's  not 
afraid  of  your  father  either.  No  one  at  all  is 
—  really."  Then  he  went  on,  while  Maisie's 
little  mind,  with  its  filial  spring  too  relaxed, 
from  of  old,  for  a  pang  at  this  want  of 
parental  majesty,  speculated  on  the  vague 
relation  between  Mrs.  Beale's  courage  and  the 
question,  for  Mrs.  Wix  and  herself,  of  a  neat 
lodging  with  their  friend.  "  She  would  n't 
care  a  bit  if  Mr.  Farange  should  make  a 
row." 

"  Do  you  mean  about  you  and  me  and 
Mrs.  Wix?  Why  should  she  care?  It 
would  n't  hurt  her." 

Sir  Claude,  with  his  legs  out  and  his  hand 
diving  into  his  trousers'  pocket,  threw  back 
his  head  with  a  laugh  just  perceptibly  tem- 
pered, as  she  thought,  by  a  sigh.  "  My  dear 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      149 

stepchild,  you  're  delightful !  Look  here, 
we  must  pay.  You  Ve  had  five  buns?  " 

"  How  can  you?  "  Maisie  demanded,  crim- 
son under  the  eye  of  the  young  woman  who 
had  stepped  to  their  board.  "  I  Ve  had 
three." 

Shortly  after  this  Mrs.  Wix  looked  so  ill 
that  it  was  to  be  feared  her  ladyship  had 
treated  her  to  some  unexampled  passage. 
Maisie  asked  if  anything  worse  than  usual 
had  occurred,  whereupon  the  poor  woman 
brought  out  with  infinite  gloom :  "  He  has 
been  seeing  Mrs.  Beale  !  " 

"Sir  Claude?"  The  child  remembered 
what  he  had  said.  "  Oh,  no  —  not  seeing 
her!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  absolutely  know 
it."  Mrs.  Wix  was  as  positive  as  she  was 
dismal. 

Maisie  nevertheless  ventured  to  challenge 
her.  "And  how,  please,  do  you  know  it?" 

She  faltered  a  moment.  "  From  herself. 
I  Ve  been  to  see  her."  Then,  on  Maisie's 
visible  surprise,  "  I  went  yesterday  while 
you  were  out  with  him.  He  has  seen  her 
repeatedly." 

It  was  not  wholly  clear  to  Maisie  why  Mrs. 
Wix  should  be  prostrate  at  this  discovery; 


ISO      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

but  her  general  consciousness  of  the  way 
things  would  be  both  perpetrated  and  re- 
sented always  eased  off  for  her  the  strain 
of  any  particular  mystery.  "  There  may  be 
some  mistake.  He  says  he  hasn't." 

Mrs.  Wix  turned  paler,  as  if  this  were  a  still 
deeper  ground  for  alarm.  "  He  says  so?  — 
he  denies  that  he  has  seen  her?  " 

"  He  told  me  so  three  days  ago.  Perhaps 
she  's  mistaken,"  Maisie  suggested. 

"Do  you  mean  perhaps  she  lies?  She  lies 
whenever  it  suits  her,  I  'm  very  sure.  But  I 
know  when  people  lie.  That 's  what  I  Ve 
loved  in  you :  you  never  do.  Mrs.  Beale 
did  n't  yesterday  at  any  rate.  He  has  seen 
her." 

Maisie  was  silent  a  little.  "  He  says  not," 
she  then  repeated.  "  Perhaps  — perhaps —  " 
Once  more  she  paused. 

"  Do  you  mean  perhaps  he  lies?" 

"  Gracious  goodness,  no  !  "  Maisie  shouted. 

Mrs.  Wix's  bitterness,  however,  again  over- 
flowed. "He  does,  he  does-!  "  she  cried, 
"  and  it 's  that  that 's  just  the  worst  of  it ! 
They  '11  take  you,  they  '11  take  you,  and  what 
in  the  world  will  then  become  of  me?  "  She 
threw  herself  afresh  upon  her  pupil  and  wept 
over  her  with  the  inevitable  effect  of  causing 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW      151 

the  child's  own  tears  to  flow.  But  Maisie 
could  not  have  told  you  if  she  had  been  cry- 
ing at  the  image  of  their  separation  or  at  that 
of  Sir  Claude's  untruth.  As  regards  this 
deviation  it  was  agreed  between  them  that 
they  were  not  in  a  position  to  bring  it  home 
to  him.  Mrs.  Wix  was  in  dread  of  doing 
anything  to  make  him,  as  she  said,  "  worse ;  " 
and  Maisie  was  sufficiently  initiated  to  be 
able  to  reflect  that  in  speaking  to  her  as  he 
had  done  he  had  only  wished  to  be  tender  of 
Mrs.  Beale.  It  fell  in  with  all  her  inclinations 
to  think  of  him  as  tender,  and  she  forbore  to 
let  him  know  that  the  two  ladies  had,  as  she 
would  never  do,  betrayed  him. 

She  had  not  long  to  keep  her  secret,  for 
the  next  day,  when  she  went  out  with  him, 
he  suddenly  said  in  reference  to  some  errand 
he  had  first  proposed:  "No,  no;  we  won't 
do  that  —  we  '11  do  something  else  !  "  On 
this,  a  few  steps  from  the  door,  he  stopped  a 
hansom  and  helped  her  in;  then,  following 
her,  he  gave  the  driver,  over  the  top,  an 
address  that  she  lost.  When  he  was  seated 
beside  her  she  asked  him  where  they  were 
going ;  to  which  he  replied :  "  My  dear  child, 
you'll  see."  She  saw,  while  she  watched 
and  wondered,  that  they  took  the  direction  of 


152      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

the  Regent's  Park ;  but  she  did  n't  know  why 
he  should  make  a  mystery  of  that,  and  it  was 
not  till  they  passed  under  a  pretty  arch  and 
drew  up  at  a  white  house  in  a  terrace,  from 
which  the  view,  she  thought,  must  be  lovely, 
that,  mystified,  she  clutched  him  and  broke 
out:  "  I  shall  see  papa?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  kind  smile. 
"  No ;  probably  not.  I  have  n't  brought  you 
for  that." 

"Then,  whose  house  is  it?" 

"  It 's  your  father's.    They  've  moved  here." 

She  looked  about;  she  had  known  Mr. 
Farange  in  four  or  five  houses,  and  there  was 
nothing  astonishing  in  this  except  that  it  was 
the  nicest  place  yet.  "  But  I  shall  see  Mrs. 
Beale?" 

"  It 's  to  see  her  that  I  brought  you." 

She  stared,  very  white  and  with  her  hand 
on  his  arm;  though  they  had  stopped  she 
kept  him  sitting  in  the  cab.  "  To  leave  me, 
do  you  mean?" 

He  hesitated.  "  It 's  not  for  me  to  say  if 
you  can  stay.  We  must  look  into  it." 

"  But  if  I  do  I  shall  see  papa?  " 

"  Oh,  some  time  or  other,  no  doubt."  Then 
Sir  Claude  went  on :  "  Have  you  really  so 
very  great  a  dread  of  that  ?  " 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW      153 

Maisie  glanced  away  over  the  apron  of  the 
cab  —  gazed  a  minute  at  the  green  expanse 
of  the  Regent's  Park;  and  at  the  moment, 
coloring  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  she  felt  the 
small  rush  of  an  emotion  more  mature  than 
any  she  had  yet  known.  It  consisted  of  a 
sudden  sense  of  shame  at  placing  in  an  in- 
ferior light,  to  so  perfect  a  gentleman  and  so 
charming  a  person  as  Sir  Claude,  so  very 
near  a  relative  as  Mr.  Farange.  She  remem- 
bered, however,  her  friend's  telling  her  that 
no  one  was  seriously  afraid  of  her  father,  and 
she  turned  round  with  a  brave  toss  of  her 
head.  "  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  can  manage 
him !  " 

Sir  Claude  smiled,  but  she  noticed  that  the 
violence  with  which  she  had  just  changed 
color  had  brought  into  his  own  face  a  slight 
compunctious  and  embarrassed  flush.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  caught  his  first  glimpse  of  her 
sense  of  responsibility.  Neither  of  them 
made  a  movement  to  get  out,  and  after  an 
instant  he  said  to  her :  "  Look  here,  if  you 
say  so,  we  won't,  after  all,  go  in." 

"  Ah,  but  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Beale ! "  the 
child  murmured. 

"  But  what  if  she  does  decide  to  take  you? 
Then,  you  know,  you  '11  have  to  remain." 


154      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Maisie  turned  it  over.  "Straight  on  — 
and  give  you  up?" 

"  Well  —  I  don't  quite  know  about  giving 
me  up." 

"  I  mean  as  I  gave  up  Mrs.  Beale  when  I 
last  went  to  mamma's.  I  could  n't  do  with- 
out you  here  for  anything  like  so  long  a  time 
as  that."  It  struck  her  as  a  hundred  years 
since  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Beale,  who  was  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door  they  were  so  near 
and  whom  she  yet  had  not  taken  the  jump  to 
clasp  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  you  '11  see  more  of  me 
than  you  Ve  seen  of  Mrs.  Beale.  It  is  n't  in 
me  to  be  so  beautifully  discreet,"  Sir  Claude 
said.  "  But  all  the  same,"  he  continued,  "  I 
leave  the  thing,  now  that  we  're  here,  abso- 
lutely with  you.  You  must  settle  it.  We  '11 
only  go  in  if  you  say  so.  If  you  don't  say 
so,  we  '11  turn  right  round  and  drive  away." 

"So  that  in  that  case  Mrs.  Beale  won't 
take  me?" 

"Well  —  not  by  any  act  of  ours." 

"  And  I  shall  be  able  to  go  on  with 
mamma?  "  Maisie  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that !  " 

She  considered.  "  But  I  thought  you  said 
you  had  squared  her." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      155 

Sir  Claude  made  an  odd  sound  which 
turned  into  a  laugh.  "Not,  my  dear  child, 
to  the  point  she  now  requires !  " 

"Then  if  she  turns  me  out  and  I  don't 
come  here  —  ?  " 

Sir  Claude  promptly  took  her  up.  "  What 
do  I  offer  you?  you  naturally  inquire.  My 
poor  chick,  that 's  just  what  I  ask  myself.  I 
don't  see  it,  I  confess,  quite  as  straight  as 
Mrs.  Wix." 

His  companion  gazed  a  moment  at  what 
Mrs.  Wix  saw.  "  You  mean  we  can't  make  a 
little  family?" 

"  It's  very  base  of  me,  no  doubt —  but  I 
can't  wholly  chuck  your  mother." 

Maisie,  at  this,  emitted  a  low  but  length- 
ened sigh,  a  meagre  note  of  reluctant  assent, 
which  would  certainly  have  been  amusing  to 
an  auditor.  "  Then  there  is  n't  anything 
else?" 

"  I  vow  I  don't  quite  see  what  there  is." 

Maisie  waited  a  moment.  Her  silence 
seemed  to  signify  that  she  too  had  no  al- 
ternative to  suggest.  But  she  made  another 
appeal.  "  If  I  come  here  you  '11  come  and 
see  me?" 

"  I  won't  lose  sight  of  you." 

"But  how  often  will  you  come?  "     As  he 


156      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

hung  fire  she  pressed  him.  "  Often  and 
often?" 

Still  he  faltered.  "  My  dear  old  woman  —  !  " 
he  began;  then  he  paused  again,  going  on 
the  next  moment  with  a  change  of  tone. 
"You're  too  funny!  Yes,  then,"  he  said, 
"often  and  often." 

"All  right" — and  Maisie  jumped  out  of 
the  cab.  Mrs.  Beale  was  at  home,  but  not 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  when  the  butler 
had  gone  for  her  the  child  suddenly  broke 
out :  "  But  when  I  'm  here  what  will  Mrs. 
Wix  do?" 

"Ah,  you  should  have  thought  of  that 
sooner !  "  said  her  companion  with  the  first 
faint  hint  of  asperity  she  had  ever  heard  him 
produce. 


XIV 

MRS.  BEALE  fairly  swooped  upon  her,  and 
the  effect  of  the  whole  hour  was  to  put  be- 
fore her  how  much,  how  quite  formidably 
indeed  after  all,  she  was  loved.  This  was 
the  more  the  case  as  her  stepmother,  so 
changed  —  in  the  very  manner  of  her  mother 
—  that  she  really  struck  her  as  a  new  ac- 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      157 

quaintance,  somehow  recalled  more  famil- 
iarity than  Maisie  could  feel.  A  rich,  strong, 
expressive  affection,  in  short,  pounced  upon 
her  in  the  shape  of  a  handsomer,  nobler, 
older  Mrs.  Beale.  It  was  like  making  a  fine 
friend,  and  they  had  n't  been  a  minute  to- 
gether before  she  felt  elated  at  the  way  she 
had  met  the  choice  imposed  upon  her  in  the 
cab.  There  was  a  whole  future  in  the  com- 
bination of  Mrs.  Beale's  beauty  and  Mrs. 
Beale's  hug.  She  seemed  to  Maisie  charm- 
ing to  behold,  and  also  to  have  no  connection 
at  all  with  anybody  who  had  once  had  meals 
in  the  nursery  and  mended  underclothing. 
The  child  knew  one  of  her  father's  wives 
was  a  woman  of  fashion,  but  she  had  always 
dimly  made  a  distinction,  not  applying  that 
epithet  without  reserve  to  the  other.  Mrs. 
Beale,  since  their  separation,  had  acquired 
a  conspicuous  right  to  it,  and  Maisie's  first 
flush  of  response  to  her  present  delight  col- 
ored all  her  splendor  with  meanings  that, 
this  time,  were  sweet.  She  had  told  Sir 
Claude  that  she  was  afraid  of  the  lady  in 
the  Regent's  Park;  but  she  was  not  too 
much  afraid  to  rejoice  aloud  on  the  very 
spot.  "Why,  aren't  you  beautiful?  Isn't 
she  beautiful,  Sir  Claude — isn't  she?" 


158      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

"  The  handsomest  woman  in  London, 
simply,"  Sir  Claude  gallantly  replied.  "  Just 
as  you  're  the  best  little  girl  !  " 

Well,  the  handsomest  woman  in  London 
gave  herself  up  with  tender,  lustrous  looks 
and  every  demonstration  of  fondness  to  a 
happiness  at  last  recovered.  There  was  al- 
most as  vivid  a  bloom  in  her  maturity  as  in 
mamma's,  and  it  took  her  but  a  short  time 
to  give  her  little  friend  an  impression  of 
positive  power  —  an  impression  that  opened 
up  there  like  a  new  source  of  confidence. 
This  was  a  perception  on  Maisie's  part  that 
neither  mamma,  nor  Sir  Claude,  nor  Mrs. 
Wix,  with  their  immense  and  so  varied  re- 
spective attractions,  had  exactly  kindled  and 
that  made  an  immediate  difference  when  the 
talk,  as  it  promptly  did,  began  to  turn  to 
her  father.  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Farange  was  a 
complication,  but  she  saw  now  that  he 
would  not  be  one  for  his  daughter.  For 
Mrs.  Beale  certainly  he  was  an  immense 
one;  she  speedily  made  known  as  much: 
but  Mrs.  Beale  from  this  moment  presented 
herself  to  Maisie  as  a  person  to  whom  a 
great  gift  had  come.  The  great  gift  was 
just  for  handling  complications.  Maisie  ob- 
served how  little  she  made  of  them  when, 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      159 

after  she  had  dropped,  to  Sir  Claude,  some 
reference  to  a  previous  meeting  he  ex- 
claimed with  an  air  of  consternation  and  yet 
with  something  of  a  laugh  that  he  had  de- 
nied to  their  companion  their  having,  since 
the  day  he  came  for  her,  seen  each  other  till 
that  moment. 

Mrs.  Beale  diffused  surprise.  "Why  did 
you  do  anything  so  silly?" 

"  To  protect  your  reputation." 

"From  Maisie?"  Mrs.  Beale  was  much 
amused.  "  My  reputation  with  Maisie  is  too 
good  to  suffer." 

"  But  you  believed  me,  you  rascal,  did  n't 
you?"  Sir  Claude  asked  of  the  child. 

She  looked  at  him  —  she  smiled.  "  Her 
reputation  did  suffer.  I  discovered  you  had 
been  here." 

He  was  not  too  chagrined  to  laugh. 
"  The  way,  my  dear,  you  talk  of  that  sort  of 
thing !  " 

"  How  should  she  talk,"  Mrs.  Beale  in- 
quired, "  after  all  this  ruinous  time  with 
her  mother?" 

"  It  was  not  mamma  who  told  me,"  Maisie 
explained.  "  It  was  only  Mrs.  Wix."  She 
was  hesitating  whether  to  bring  out  before 
Sir  Claude  the  source  of  Mrs.  Wix's  infor- 


160      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

mation  when  Mrs.  Beale,  addressing  the 
young  man,  showed  her  the  vanity  of  her 
scruples. 

"  Do  you  know  that  preposterous  person 
came  to  see  me  a  day  or  two  ago  ?  —  when 
I  told  her  that  I  had  seen  you  repeatedly." 

Sir  Claude,  this  time,  was  disconcerted. 
"  The  old  cat !  She  never  told  me.  Then  you 
thought  I  lied?  "  he  demanded  of  Maisie. 

She  was  flurried  by  the  term  with  which 
he  had  qualified  her  patient  friend,  but  she 
felt  the  occasion  to  be  one  to  which  she  must 
in  every  way  lend  herself.  "  Oh,  I  did  n't 
mind !  But  Mrs.  Wix  did,"  she  added  with 
an  intention  benevolent  to  her  governess. 

Her  intention  was  not  very  effective  as 
regards  Mrs.  Beale.  "  Mrs.  Wix  is  too  idi- 
otic !  "  that  lady  declared. 

"  But  to  you,  of  all  people,"  Sir  Claude 
asked,  "what  had  she  to  say?" 

"  Why,  that,  like  Mrs.  Micawber  —  whom 
she  must,  I  think,  rather  resemble  —  she  will 
never,  never,  never  desert  Miss  Farange." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  make  that  all  right !  "  Sir  Claude 
cheerfully  returned. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  hope  so,  my  dear  man,"  said 
Mrs.  Beale,  while  Maisie  wondered  just  how 
he  would  proceed.  Before  she  had  time  to 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      161 

ask  Mrs.  Beale  continued:  "That's  not  all 
she  came  to  do,  if  you  please.  But  you  '11 
never  guess  the  rest." 

"  Shall  /  guess  it?  "  Maisie  threw  in. 

Mrs.  Beale  was  again  amused.  "  Why, 
you  're  just  the  person !  It  must  be  quite 
the  sort  of  thing  you  Ve  heard  at  your 
awful  mother's.  Have  you  never  seen  women 
there  crying  to  her  to  '  spare '  the  men  they 
love?" 

Maisie,  wondering,  tried  to  remember; 
but  Sir  Claude  was  freshly  diverted.  "  Oh, 
they  don't  trouble  about  Ida!  Mrs.  Wix 
cried  to  you  to  spare  me?  " 

"  She  regularly  went  down  on  her  knees 
to  me." 

"The  darling  old  dear!  "  the  young  man 
exclaimed. 

These  words  were  a  joy  to  Maisie  —  they 
made  up  for  his  previous  description  of  Mrs. 
Wix.  "And  will  you  spare  him?"  she 
asked  of  Mrs.  Beale. 

Her  stepmother,  seizing  her  and  kissing 
her  again,  seemed  charmed  with  the  tone 
of  her  question.  "  Not  an  inch  of  him ! 
I  '11  pick  him  to  the  bone !  " 

"  You  mean  then  he  '11  really  come  often?  " 
Maisie  pressed. 

ii 


162      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Mrs.  Beale  turned  lovely  eyes  to  Sir 
Claude.  "That's  not  for  me  to  say  —  it's 
for  him." 

He  said  nothing  for  the  time,  however ;  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  vaguely  hum- 
ming a  tune  —  even  Maisie  could  see  he  was 
a  little  nervous  —  he  only  walked  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out  at  the  Regent's  Park. 
"  Well,  he  has  promised,"  Maisie  said.  "  But 
how  will  papa  like  it?  " 

"His  being  in  and  out?  Ah,  that's  a 
question  that,  to  be  frank  with  you,  my  dear, 
hardly  matters.  In  point  of  fact,  however, 
Beale  greatly  enjoys  the  idea  that  Sir  Claude 
too,  poor  man,  has  been  forced  to  quarrel 
with  your  mother." 

Sir  Claude  turned  round  and  spoke  gravely 
and  kindly.  "  Don't  be  afraid,  Maisie ;  you 
won't  lose  sight  of  me." 

"  Thank  you  so  much  !  "  Maisie  was  ra- 
diant. "  But  what  I  meant  —  don't  you 
know?  —  was  what  papa  would  say  to 
me." 

"  Oh,  I  Ve  been  having  that  out  with  him," 
said  Mrs.  Beale — "  he  '11  behave  well  enough. 
You  see  the  great  difficulty  is  that,  though 
he  changes  every  three  days  about  every- 
thing else  in  the  world,  he  has  never  changed 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       163 

about  your  mother.     It 's  a  caution,  the  way 
he  hates  her." 

Sir  Claude  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  It  cer- 
tainly can't  beat  the  way  she  still  hates  him  !  " 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Beale  went  on  obligingly, 
"  nothing  can  take  the  place  of  that  feeling 
with  either  of  them,  and  the  best  way  they 
can  think  of  to  show  it  is  for  each  to  leave 
you  as  long  as  possible  on  the  hands  of  the 
other.  There 's  nothing,  as  you  Ve  seen  for 
yourself,  that  makes  either  so  furious.  It 
is  n't,  asking  so  little  as  you  do,  that  you  Ve 
much  of  an  expense  or  a  trouble ;  it 's  only 
that  you  make  each  feel  so  well  how  nasty 
the  other  wants  to  be.  Therefore  Beale  goes 
on  loathing  your  mother  too  much  to  have 
any  great  fury  left  for  any  one  else.  Besides, 
you  know,  I  Ve  squared  him." 

"  Oh  Lord  !  "  Sir  Claude  cried  with  a  louder 
laugh  and  turning  again  to  the  window. 

"  7  know  how !  "  Maisie  was  prompt  to 
return.  "  By  letting  him  do  what  he  wants 
on  condition  that  he  lets  you  also  do  it." 

"  You  're  too  delicious,  my  own  pet !  "  — 
she  was  involved  in  another  hug.  "  How  in 
the  world  have  I  got  on  so  long  without  you  ? 
I've  not  been  happy,  love,"  said  Mrs.  Beale 
with  her  cheek  to  the  child's. 


164      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

"  Be  happy  now !  "  Maisie  throbbed  with 
shy  tenderness. 

"  I  think  I  shall  be.     You  '11  save  me." 

"  As  I  'm  saving  Sir  Claude?  "  the  little  girl 
precipitated. 

Mrs.  Beale,  a  trifle  surprised,  appealed  to 
her  visitor.  "Is  she  really?" 

He  showed  high  amusement  at  Maisie's 
question.  "  It 's  dear  Mrs.  Wix's  idea.  There 
may  be  something  in  it." 

"  He  makes  me  his  duty  —  he  makes  me 
his  life,"  Maisie  continued  to  her  stepmother. 

"  Why,  that 's  what  /  want  to  do  !  "  And 
Mrs.  Beale,  so  anticipated,  turned  pink  with 
astonishment. 

"  Well,  you  can  do  it  together.  Then  he  '11 
have  to  come  !  " 

Mrs.  Beale  by  this  time  had  her  young 
friend  fairly  in  her  lap ;  she  smiled  up  at  Sir 
Claude.  "  Shall  we  do  it  together?  " 

His  laughter  had  dropped  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  turned  his  handsome,  serious  face 
not  to  his  hostess,  but  to  his  stepdaughter. 
"  Well,  it 's  rather  more  decent  than  some 
things.  Upon  my  soul,  the  way  things  are 
going,  it  seems  to  me  the  only  decency !  " 
He  had  the  air  of  arguing  it  out  to  Maisie, 
of  presenting  it,  through  an  impulse  of  con- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      165 

science,  as  a  connection  in  which  they  could 
honorably  see  her  participate;  though  this 
plea  of  mere  "  decency "  might  well  have 
appeared  to  fall  below  her  rosy  little  vision. 
"If  we're  notjgood  for  you,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  know  who  we  shall  be 
good  for !  " 

Mrs.  Beale  showed  the  child  an  intenser 
radiance.  "  I  dare  say  you  will  save  us  — 
from  one  thing  and  another." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  she  '11  save  me  from  !  " 
Sir  Claude  roundly  declared.  "There'll  be 
rows,  of  course,"  he  went  on. 

Mrs.  Beale  quickly  took  him  up.  "  Yes, 
but  they'll  be  nothing  —  for  you,  at  least  — 
to  the  rows  your  wife  makes  as  it  is.  I  can 
bear  what  /  suffer  —  I  can't  bear  what  you 
do." 

"  We  're  doing  a  good  deal  for  you,  you 
know,  young  woman,"  Sir  Claude  went  on  to 
Maisie  with  the  same  gravity. 

His  little  charge  glowed  with  a  sense  of 
obligation  and  the  eagerness  of  her  desire  it 
should  be  known  how  little  was  lost  on  her. 
"  Oh,  I  know  !  " 

"  Then  you  must  keep  us  all  right !  "  This 
time  he  laughed. 

"  How  you  talk  to  her !  "  cried  Mrs.  Beale. 


166      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

"  No  worse  than  you  !  "  he  gayly  rejoined. 

"  Handsome  is  that  handsome  does !  "  she 
exclaimed  in  the  same  spirit.  "  You  can 
take  off  your  things,"  she  went  on,  releasing 
Maisie. 

The  child,  on  her  feet,  was  all  emotion. 
"Then  I'm  just  to  stop  —  this  way?  " 

"  It  will  do  as  well  as  any  other.  Sir 
Claude,  to-morrow,  will  have  your  things 
brought." 

"  I  '11  bring  them  myself.  Upon  my  word 
I  '11  see  them  packed  !  "  Sir  Claude  promised. 
"  Come  here  and  unbutton." 

He  had  beckoned  his  young  companion  to 
where  he  sat  and  he  helped  to  disengage  her 
from  her  coverings  while  Mrs.  Beale,  from  a 
little  distance,  smiled  at  the  hand  he  dis- 
played. "  There 's  a  stepfather  for  you  !  I  'm 
bound  to  say,  you  know,  that  he  makes  up 
for  the  want  of  other  people." 

"  He  makes  up  for  the  want  of  a  good 
nurse  !  "  Sir  Claude  laughed.  "  Don't  you  re- 
member I  told  you  so  the  very  first  time?  " 

"Remember?  It  was  exactly  what  made 
me  think  so  well  of  you !  " 

"  Nothing  would  induce  me,"  the  young 
man  said  to  Maisie,  "  to  tell  you  what  made 
me  think  so  well  of  her"  Having  divested 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      167 

the  child  he  kissed  her  gently  and  gave  her  a 
little  pat  to  make  her  stand  off.  The  pat  was 
accompanied  with  a  vague  sigh,  in  which  his 
gravity  of  a  moment  before  came  back.  "  All 
the  same,  if  you  had  n't  had  the  fatal  gift  of 
beauty  —  " 

'•Well,  what?"  Maisie  asked,  wondering 
why  he  paused.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
heard  of  her  beauty. 

"  Why,  we  should  n't  all  be  thinking  so 
well  of  each  other  !  " 

"  He  is  n't  speaking  of  personal  loveli- 
ness —  you  're  not  lovely  in  person,  my  dear, 
at  all,"  Mrs.  Beale  explained.  "He's  just 
talking  of  plain,  dull  charm  of  character." 

"Her  character's  the  most  extraordinary 
thing  in  all  the  world,"  Sir  Claude  com- 
municated to  Mrs.  Beale. 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that  sort  of  thing !  " 
—  she  fairly  bridled  with  the  knowledge. 

It  gave  Maisie  somehow  a  sudden  sense  of 
responsibility,  from  which  she  sought  refuge. 
"Well,  you've  got  it  too,  'that  sort  of 
thing  '  —  you  Ve  got  the  fatal  gift,  you  both 
really  have  ! "  she  broke  out. 

"  Beauty  of  character?  My  dear  boy,  we 
have  n't  a  pennyworth  !  "  Sir  Claude  protested. 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  sir !  "  leaped  lightly 


168      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

from  Mrs.  Beale.  "  I  'm  good  and  I  'm 
clever.  What  more  do  you  want?  For 
you,  I  '11  spare  your  blushes  and  not  be 
personal  —  I  '11  simply  say  that  you  're  as 
handsome  as  you  can  stick  together." 

"  You  're  both  very  lovely ;  you  can't  get 
out  of  it !  "  —  Maisie  felt  the  need  of  carrying 
her  point  "  And  it 's  beautiful  to  see  you 
together." 

Sir  Claude  had  taken  his  hat  and  stick ;  he 
stood  looking  at  her  a  moment.  "  You  're  a 
comfort  in  trouble!  But  I  must  go  home 
and  pack." 

"And  when  will  you  come  back? — to- 
morrow, to-morrow?" 

"  You  see  what  we  're  in  for !  "  he  said  to 
Mrs.  Beale. 

"  Well,  /  can  bear  it,"  she  replied,  "  if  you 
can." 

Their  companion  gazed  from  one  of  them 
to  the  other,  thinking  that  though  she  had 
been  happy  indeed  between  Sir  Claude  and 
Mrs.  Wix,  she  should  evidently  be  happier 
still  between  Sir  Claude  and  Mrs.  Beale. 
But  it  was  like  being  perched  on  a  prancing 
horse,  and  she  made  a  movement  to  hold  on 
to  something.  "  Then,  you  know,  sha'n't  I 
bid  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Wix?" 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       169 

"  Oh,  I  '11  make  it  all  right  with  her,"  said 
Sir  Claude. 

Maisie  considered.     "  And  with  mamma?  " 

"  Ah,  mamma !  "  he  sadly  laughed. 

Even  for  the  child  this  was  scarcely  am- 
biguous ;  but  Mrs.  Beale  endeavored  to  con- 
tribute to  its  clearness.  "  Your  mother  will 
crow,  she  '11  crow  —  " 

"  Like  the  early  bird !  "  said  Sir  Claude  as 
she  looked  about  for  a  comparison. 

"  She  '11  need  no  consolation,"  Mrs.  Beale 
went  on,  "  for  having  made  your  father  grandly 
blaspheme." 

Maisie  stared.  "  Will  he  grandly  blas- 
pheme?" It  sounded  picturesque,  almost 
scriptural,  and  her  question  produced  a 
fresh  play  of  caresses,  in  which  Sir  Claude 
also  engaged.  She  wondered  meanwhile 
who,  if  Mrs.  Wix  was  disposed  of,  would 
represent  in  her  life  the  element  of  geog- 
raphy and  anecdote;  and  she  presently 
surmounted  the  delicacy  she  felt  about  ask- 
ing. "  Won't  there  be  any  one  to  give  me 
lessons?" 

Mrs.  Beale  was  prepared  with  a  reply  that 
struck  her  as  absolutely  magnificent.  "  You 
shall  have  such  lessons  as  you  Ve  never  had 
in  all  your  life.  You  shall  go  to  courses." 


iyo      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

" Courses?"  Maisie  had  never  heard  of 
such  things. 

"  At  institutions  —  on  subjects." 

Maisie  continued  to  stare.     "Subjects?" 

Mrs.  Beale  was  really  splendid.  "  All  the 
most  important  ones.  French  literature  — 
and  sacred  history.  You  '11  take  part  in 
classes  —  with  awfully  smart  children.1' 

"  I  'm  going  to  look  thoroughly  into  the 
whole  thing,  you  know;  "  and  Sir  Claude, 
with  characteristic  kindness,  gave  her  a  nod 
of  assurance  accompanied  by  a  friendly  wink. 

But  Mrs.  Beale  went  much  further.  "  My 
dear  child,  you  shall  attend  lectures." 

The  horizon  was  suddenly  vast,  and  Maisie 
herself  felt  the  smaller  for  it.  "  All  alone?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  '11  attend  them  with  you,"  said 
Sir  Claude.  "  They  '11  teach  me  a  lot  I  don't 
know." 

"  So  they  will  me,"  Mrs.  Beale  gravely  ad- 
mitted. "We'll  go  with  her  together— it 
will  be  charming.  It  Js  ages,"  she  confessed 
to  Maisie,  "  since  I  Ve  had  any  time  for 
study.  That 's  another  sweet  way  in  which 
you  '11  be  a  motive  to  us.  Oh,  won't  the 
good  she'll  do  us  be  immense?"  she  broke 
out  uncontrollably  to  Sir  Claude. 

He  weighed  it ;  then  he  replied :  "  That 's 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       171 

certainly  our  idea."  Of  this  idea  Maisie 
naturally  had  less  of  a  grasp,  but  it  inspired 
her  with  almost  equal  enthusiasm.  If  in  so 
bright  a  prospect  there  would  be  nothing  to 
long  for,  it  followed  that  she  would  n't  long 
for  Mrs.  Wix;  but  her  consciousness  of  her 
assent  to  the  absence  of  that  fond  figure 
caused  a  pair  of  words  that  had  often 
sounded  in  her  ears  to  ring  in  them  again. 
It  showed  her  in  short  what  her  father  had 
always  meant  by  calling  her  mother  a  "  low 
sneak  "  and  her  mother  by  calling  her  father 
one.  She  wondered  if  she  herself  should  n't 
be  a  low  sneak  in  learning  to  be  so  happy 
without  Mrs.  Wix.  What  would  Mrs.  Wix 
do?  where  would  Mrs.  Wix  go?  Before 
Maisie  knew  it,  and  at  the  door,  as  Sir 
Claude  was  off,  these  anxieties,  on  her 
lips,  grew  articulate  and  her  stepfather 
had  stopped  long  enough  to  answer  them. 
"  Oh,  I  '11  square  her !  "  he  said ;  and  with 
this  he  departed. 

Face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Beale  she  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief,  looking  round  at  what  seemed 
to  her  the  dawn  of  a  higher  order.  "  Then 
every  one  will  be  squared ! "  she  peacefully 
said.  On  which  her  stepmother  affection- 
ately bent  over  her  again. 


172      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 


XV 


IT  was  Susan  Ash  who  came  to  her  with 
the  news.  "  He 's  downstairs,  miss,  and  he 
do  look  beautiful." 

In  the  schoolroom  at  her  father's,  which 
had  pretty  blue  curtains,  she  had  been  mak- 
ing out  at  the  piano  a  lovely  little  thing, 
as  Mrs.  Beale  called  it,  a  "  Moonlight  Ber- 
ceuse" sent  her  through  the  post  by  Sir 
Claude,  who  considered  that  her  musical 
education  had  been  deplorably  neglected 
and  who,  the  last  months  at  her  mother's, 
had  been  on  the  point  of  making  arrange- 
ments for  regular  lessons.  She  knew  from 
him  familiarly  that  the  real  thing,  as  he 
said,  was  shockingly  dear  and  that  anything 
else  was  a  waste  of  money,  and  she  therefore 
rejoiced  the  more  at  the  sacrifice  represented 
by  this  composition,  of  which  the  price,  five 
shillings,  was  marked  on  the  cover  and  which 
was  evidently  the  real  thing.  She  was  now 
on  her  feet  in  an  instant.  "  Mrs.  Beale  has 
sent  up  for  me?  " 

"  Oh,  no  —  it 's  not  that,"  said  Susan  Ash. 
"  Mrs.  Beale  has  been  out  this  hour." 

"Then  papa?" 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       173 

"  Dear  no  —  not  papa.  You  '11  do,  miss, 
all  but  them  loose  'airs,"  Susan  went  on. 
"  Your  papa  never  came  'ome  at  all,"  she 
added. 

"From  where?"  Wondering  a  little  ab- 
sently and  very  excitedly,  Maisie  gave  a  wild 
manual  brush  of  her  locks. 

"  Oh,  that,  miss,  I  should  be  very  sorry 
to  tell  you  !  I  'd  rather  tuck  away  that  white 
thing  behind — though  I  'm  blessed  if  it's  my 
work." 

"  Do  then,  please.  I  know  where  papa 
was,"  Maisie  continued  impatiently. 

"  Well,  in  your  place  I  would  n't  tell." 

"  He  was  at  the  club  —  the  Chrysanthe- 
mum. So !  " 

"All  night  long?  Why,  the  flowers  shut 
up  at  night,  you  know !  "  cried  Susan  Ash. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  "  —  the  child  was  at 
the  door.  "  Sir  Claude  asked  for  me  all 
alone?" 

"  The  same  as  if  you  was  a  duchess." 

Maisie  was  aware  on  her  way  downstairs 
that  she  was  now  quite  as  happy  as  one, 
and  also,  a  moment  later,  as  she  hung  round 
his  neck,  that  even  such  a  personage  would 
scarce  commit  herself  more  grandly.  There 
was  moreover  a  hint  of  the  duchess  in  the 


174      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

infinite  point  with  which,  as  she  felt,  she 
exclaimed :  "  And  this  is  what  you  call  com- 
ing often?" 

Sir  Claude  met  her,  delightfully,  in  the 
same  fine  spirit.  "  My  dear  old  man,  don't 
make  me  a  scene — I  assure  you  it's  what 
every  woman  does  that  I  look  at.  Let  us 
have  some  fun  —  it 's  a  lovely  day :  clap  on 
something  smart  and  come  out  with  me  — 
then  we  '11  talk  it  over  quietly."  They  were 
on  their  way  five  minutes  later  to  Hyde 
Park,  and  nothing  that  even  in  the  good 
days  at  her  mother's  they  had  ever  talked 
over  had  more  of  the  perfection  of  security 
than  his  present  prompt  explanations.  He 
was  at  his  best  in  such  an  office  and  with 
the  exception  of  Mrs.  Wix  the  only  person 
she  had  met  in  her  life  who  ever  explained. 
With  him,  however,  the  act  had  an  authority 
transcending  the  wisdom  of  woman.  It  all 
came  back,  all  the  plans  that  always  failed, 
all  the  rewards  and  bribes  that  she  was 
perpetually  paying  for  in  advance  and  per- 
petually out  of  pocket  by  afterwards  —  the 
whole  complication  to  be  dealt  with  intro- 
duced her  on  each  occasion  afresh  to  the 
question  of  money.  Even  she  herself  al- 
most knew  how  it  would  have  expressed  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      175 

strength  of  his  empire  to  say  that  to  shuffle 
away  her  sense  of  being  duped  he  had  only 
from  under  his  lovely  moustache  to  breathe 
upon  it.  It  was  somehow  in  the  nature  of 
plans  to  be  expensive  and  in  the  nature  of 
the  expensive  to  be  impossible.  To  be 
"  involved "  was  of  the  essence  of  every- 
body's affairs,  and  also  at  every  particular 
moment  to  be  more  involved  than  usual. 
This  had  been  the  case  with  Sir  Claude's, 
with  papa's,  with  mamma's,  with  Mrs.  Beale's, 
and  with  Maisie's  own  at  the  particular  mo- 
ment, a  moment  of  several  weeks,  that  had 
elapsed  since  our  young  lady  had  been  re- 
established at  her  father's.  There  was  n't 
"  two-and-tuppence  "  for  anything  or  for  any 
one,  and  that  was  why  there  had  been  no 
sequel  to  the  classes  in  French  literature 
with  all  the  smart  little  girls.  It  was  devilish 
awkward,  didn't  she  see?  to  try  without 
even  the  modest  sum  mentioned  to  mix  her 
up  with  a  remote  array  that  glittered  be- 
fore her  after  this  as  the  children  of  the 
Rich.  She  was  to  feel  henceforth  as  if  she 
were  flattening  her  nose  upon  the  hard  win- 
dow-pane of  the  sweet-shop  of  knowledge. 
If  the  classes,  however,  that  were  select  and 
accordingly  the  only  ones  were  impossibly 


176      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

dear,  the  lectures  at  the  institutions  —  at 
least  at  some  of  them  —  were  directly  ad- 
dressed to  the  intelligent  poor,  and  it  there- 
fore had  to  be  easier  still  to  produce  on  the 
spot  the  reason  why  she  had  been  taken  to 
none.  This  reason,  Sir  Claude  said,  was 
that  she  happened  to  be  just  going  to  be, 
though  indeed  they  had  nothing  to  do  with 
that  in  now  directing  their  steps  to  the  banks 
of  the  Serpentine.  Maisie's  own  park,  in  the 
north,  had  been  nearer  at  hand;  but  they 
rolled  westward  in  a  hansom  because  at  the 
end  of  the  sweet  June  days  that  was  the 
direction  taken  by  every  one  any  one  looked 
at.  They  cultivated  for  an  hour,  on  the  Row 
arid  by  the  Drive,  this  opportunity  for  each 
observer  to  amuse  and  for  one  of  them  in- 
deed not  a  little  hilariously  to  mystify  the 
other,  and  before  the  hour  was  over  Maisie 
had  elicited  in  reply  to  her  sharpest  challenge 
a  further  account  of  her  friend's  long  absence. 

"  Why  I  Ve  broken  my  word  to  you  so 
dreadfully  —  promising  so  solemnly  and  then 
never  coming?  Well,  my  dear,  that's  a  ques- 
tion that,  not  seeing  me  day  after  day,  you 
must  very  often  have  put  to  Mrs.  Beale." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  the  child  replied ;  "  again  and 
again." 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      177 

"  And  what  has  she  told  you  ?  " 

"  That  you  're  as  bad  as  you  're  beautiful." 

"  Is  that  what  she  says?  " 

"  Those  very  words." 

"  Ah,  the  dear  old  soul !  "  Sir  Claude  was 
much  diverted,  and  his  loud,  clear  laugh  was 
all  his  explanation.  Those  were  just  the 
words  Maisie  had  last  heard  him  use  about 
Mrs.  Wix.  She  clung  to  his  hand,  which  was 
encased  in  a  pearl-gray  glove  ornamented 
with  the  thick  black  lines  that,  at  her 
mother's,  always  used  to  strike  her  as  con- 
nected with  the  way  the  bestitched  fists  of  the 
long  ladies  carried,  with  the  elbows  well  out, 
their  umbrellas  upside  down.  The  mere 
sense  of  it  in  her  own  covered  the  ground 
of  loss  just  as  much  as  the  ground  of  gain. 
His  presence  was  like  an  object  brought  so 
close  to  her  face  that  she  could  n't  see  round 
its  edges.  He  himself,  however,  remained 
showman  of  the  spectacle  even  after  they 
had  passed  out  of  the  park  and  begun,  under 
the  charm  of  the  spot  and  the  season,  to  stroll 
in  Kensington  Gardens.  What  they  had  left 
behind  them  was,  as  he  said,  only  a  pretty 
bad  circus,  and,  through  engaging  gates  and 
over  a  bridge,  they  had  come  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  as  he  also  remarked,  a  hundred 

12 


178      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

miles  from  London.  A  great  green  glade 
was  before  them,  and  high  old  trees,  and 
under  the  shade  of  these,  in  the  fresh  turf, 
the  crooked  course  of  a  rural  footpath.  "  It's 
the  Forest  of  Arden,"  Sir  Claude  had  just 
delightfully  observed,  "  and  I  'm  the  banished 
duke,  and  you  're  —  what  was  the  young 
woman  called  ?  —  the  artless  country  wench. 
And  there,"  he  went  on,  "  is  the  other  girl  — 
what's  her  name,  Rosalind?  —  and  (don't  you 
know?)  the  fellow  who  was  making  up  to  her. 
Upon  my  word  he  is  making  up  to  her !  " 

His  allusion  was  to  a  couple  who,  side  by 
side,  at  the  end  of  the  glade,  were  moving  in 
the  same  direction  as  themselves.  These 
distant  figures,  in  the  slow  stroll  which  kept 
them  so  close  together  that  their  heads, 
drooping  a  little  forward,  almost  touched, 
presented  the  back  of  a  lady  who  looked  tall, 
who  was  evidently  a  very  fine  woman,  and 
that  of  a  gentleman  whose  left  hand  appeared 
to  be  passed  well  into  her  arm  while  his 
right,  behind  him,  made  jerky  motions  with 
the  stick  that  it  grasped.  Maisie's  fancy 
responded  for  an  instant  to  her  friend's  idea 
that  the  sight  was  idyllic;  then,  stopping 
short,  she  brought  out  with  all  her  clearness : 
"  Why,  mercy  —  if  it  is  n't  mamma !" 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW      179 

Sir  Claude  paused  with  a  stare.  "  Mamma  ? 
Why,  mamma  's  at  Brussels  !  " 

Maisie,  with  her  eyes  on  the  lady,  wondered. 
"At  Brussels?" 

"  She 's  gone  to  play  a  match." 

"  At  billiards?     You  did  n't  tell  me." 

"  Of  course  I  did  n't !  "  Sir  Claude  ejacu- 
lated. "  There 's  plenty  I  don't  tell  you. 
She  went  on  Wednesday." 

The  couple  had  added  to  their  distance, 
but  Maisie's  eyes  more  than  kept  pace  with 
them.  "  Then  she  has  come  back." 

Sir  Claude  watched  the  lady.  "  It 's  much 
more  likely  she  never  went !  " 

"  It 's  mamma  !  "  the  child  said  with 
decision. 

They  had  stood  still,  but  Sir  Claude  had 
made  the  most  of  his  opportunity  and  it  hap- 
pened that  just  at  this  moment,  at  the  end 
of  the  vista,  the  others  halted  and,  still  show- 
ing only  their  backs,  seemed  to  stay  talking. 
"  Right  you  are,  my  duck !  "  he  exclaimed  at 
last  "  It 's  my  own  sweet  wife  !  " 

He  had  spoken  with  a  laugh,  but  he  had 
changed  color,  and  Maisie  quickly  looked 
away  from  him.  "  Then  who  is  it  with  her?" 

"  Blest  if  I  know !  "  said  Sir  Claude. 

"Is  it  Mr.  Perriam?" 


i8o      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  Oh,  dear  no  —  Perriam  's  smashed." 

"Smashed?" 

"  Exposed  —  in  the  City.  But  there  are 
quantities  of  others !  "  Sir  Claude  threw  in. 

Maisie  grouped  them ;  she  studied  the  gen- 
tleman's back.  "  Then  is  this  Lord  Eric?" 

For  a  moment  her  companion  made  no 
answer,  and  when  she  turned  her  eyes  again 
to  him  he  was  looking  at  her,  she  thought, 
rather  queerly.  "  What  do  you  know  about 
Lord  Eric?" 

She  tried,  innocently,  to  be  odd  in  return. 
"  Oh,  I  know  more  than  you  think !  Is  it 
Lord  Eric?"  she  repeated. 

"  It  may  be.     Blest  if  I  care  !  " 

Their  friends  had  slightly  separated,  and 
now,  as  Sir  Claude  spoke,  they  suddenly 
faced  round,  showing  all  the  splendor  of  her 
ladyship  and  all  the  mystery  of  her  comrade. 
Maisie  held  her  breath.  "  They're  coming ! " 

"  Let  them  come."  And  Sir  Claude,  pull- 
ing out  his  cigarettes,  began  to  strike  a 
light. 

"  We  shall  meet  them?"  the  child  asked. 

" No ;  they  '11  meet  us" 

Maisie  stood  her  ground.  "They  see  us. 
Just  look." 

Sir  Claude  threw  away  his  match.     "  Come 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      181 

straight  on."  The  others,  in  the  return, 
evidently  startled,  had  half  paused  again, 
keeping  now  well  apart.  "  She 's  horribly 
surprised  and  she  wants  to  slope,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  But  it's  too  late." 

Maisie  advanced  beside  him,  making  out 
even  across  the  interval  that  her  ladyship 
was  ill  at  ease.  "  Then  what  will  she  do  ?  " 

Sir  Claude  puffed  his  cigarette.  "  She 's 
quickly  thinking."  He  appeared  to  enjoy  it. 

Ida  had  faltered  but  an  instant ;  her  com- 
panion clearly  gave  her  moral  support. 
Maisie  thought  he  somehow  looked  brave, 
and  he  had  indeed  no  likeness  whatever  to 
Mr.  Perriam.  His  face,  thin  and  rather 
sharp,  was  smooth,  and  it  was  not  till  they 
came  nearer  that  she  saw  he  had  a  remark- 
ably fair  little  moustache.  She  could  already 
see  that  his  eyes  were  of  the  lightest  blue. 
He  was  far  nicer  than  Mr.  Perriam.  Mamma 
looked  terrible  from  afar,  but  even  under  her 
guns  the  child's  curiosity  flickered  and  she 
appealed  again  to  Sir  Claude.  "  Is  it — is  it 
Lord  Eric?" 

Sir  Claude  smoked  composedly  enough. 
"  I  think  it 's  the  Baron." 

This  was  a  happy  solution  —  it  fitted  her 
idea  of  a  Baron.  But  what  idea,  as  she  now 


i82      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

came  grandly  on,  did  mamma  fit?  —  unless 
that  of  an  actress,  in  some  tremendous  situa- 
tion, sweeping  down  to  the  footlights  as  if 
she  would  jump  them.  Maisie  felt  really 
frightened  and  before  she  knew  it  had  passed 
her  hand  into  Sir  Claude's  arm.  Her  pressure 
caused  him  to  stop,  and  at  the  sight  of  this 
the  other  couple  came  equally  to  a  stand  and, 
beyond  the  diminished  space,  remained  a 
moment  more,  in  talk.  This,  however,  was 
the  matter  of  an  instant;  leaving  the  Baron 
apparently  to  come  round  more  circuitously 
—  an  outflanking  movement  if  Maisie  had 
but  known  —  her  ladyship  resumed  the  direct 
approach.  "  What  will  she  do?  "  her  daugh- 
ter articulated. 

Sir  Claude  was  now  in  a  position  to  say. 
"  Try  to  pretend  it 's  me." 

"You?" 

"  Why,  that  /  Jm  up  to  something." 

In  another  minute  poor  Ida  had  justified 
this  prediction,  erect  there  before  them  like 
a  figure  of  justice  in  full  dress.  There  were 
parts  of  her  face  that  grew  whiter  while 
Maisie  looked,  and  other  parts  in  which  this 
change  seemed  to  make  other  colors  reign 
with  more  intensity.  "  What  are  you  doing 
with  my  daughter?"  she  demanded  of  her 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      183 

husband;  in  spite  of  the  indignant  tone  of 
which  Maisie  had  a  greater  sense  than  ever 
in  her  life  before  of  not  being  personally 
noticed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Sir  Claude 
also  grew  pale  as  an  effect  of  the  loud  defi- 
ance with  which  Ida  twice  repeated  this 
question.  He  put  her,  instead  of  answering 
it,  an  inquiry  of  his  own :  "  Who  the  devil 
have  you  got  hold  of  now  ?"  and  at  this  her 
ladyship  turned  tremendously  to  the  child, 
glaring  at  her  as  if  she  were  an  equal  figure 
of  guilt.  Maisie  received  in  petrifaction  the 
full  force  of  her  mother's  huge  painted  eyes 
—  they  were  like  Japanese  lanterns  swung 
under  festive  arches.  But  life  came  back  to 
her  from  a  tone  suddenly  and  strangely  soft- 
ened. "  Go  straight  to  that  gentleman,  my 
dear ;  I  Ve  requested  him  to  take  you  a  few 
minutes.  He's  charming  —  go.  I  Ve  some- 
thing to  say  to  this  creature." 

Maisie  felt  Sir  Claude  immediately  clutch 
her.  "  No,  no  —  thank  you ;  that  won't  do. 
She's  mine." 

"Yours?"  It  was  confounding  to  Maisie 
to  hear  her  speak  quite  as  if  she  had  never 
heard  of  Sir  Claude  before. 

"  Mine ;  you  Ve  given  her  up.  You  Ve  not 
another  word  to  say  about  her.  I  have  her 


184      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

from  her  father,"  said  Sir  Claude  —  a  state- 
ment that  astonished  his  companion,  who 
could  also  measure  its  lively  action  on  her 
mother. 

There  was  visibly,  however,  an  influence 
that  made  Ida  consider ;  she  glanced  at  the 
gentleman  she  had  left,  who,  having  strolled 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  to  some  dis- 
tance, stood  there  with  unembarrassed  vague- 
ness. With  her  great  hard  eyes  on  him  for 
a  moment  she  smiled ;  then  she  looked  again 
at  Sir  Claude.  "  I  Ve  given  her  up  to  her 
father  to  keep — not  to  get  rid  of  by  sending 
her  about  the  town  either  with  you  or  with  any 
one  else.  If  she  's  not  to  mind  me,  let  him 
come  and  tell  me  so.  I  decline  to  take  it 
from  another  person,  and  you  're  a  fool  to 
pretend  that,  with  your  hypocritical  med- 
dling, you  Ve  a  leg  to  stand  on.  I  know 
your  game,  and  I  Ve  something  now  to  say  to 
you  about  it." 

Sir  Claude  gave  a  squeeze  of  the  child's 
arm.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  you  she  would  have, 
Miss  Farange?" 

"  You  're  uncommonly  afraid  to  hear  it," 
Ida  went  on ;  "  but  if  you  think  she  '11  pro- 
tect you  from  it  you  're  mightily  mistaken." 
She  meant  what  she  said.  "  I  '11  give  her  the 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      185 

benefit  as  soon  as  look  at  you.  Should  you 
like  her  to  know,  my  dear?"  Maisie  had  a 
sense  of  her  launching  this  inquiry  at  him 
with  effect;  yet  our  young  lady  was  also 
conscious  of  hoping  that  Sir  Claude  would 
reply  in  the  affirmative.  We  have  already 
learned  that  she  had  come  to  like  people's 
liking  her  to  "  know."  Before  he  could  re- 

o 

ply  at  all,  however,  her  mother  opened  a  pair 
of  arms  of  extraordinary  elegance,  and  then 
she  felt  the  loosening  of  his  grasp.  "  My 
own  child,"  Ida  murmured  in  a  voice — a 
voice  of  sudden  confused  tenderness  —  that 
it  seemed  to  her  she  heard  for  the  first  time. 
She  wavered  but  an  instant,  thrilled  with  the 
first  direct  appeal,  as  distinguished  from  the 
mere  maternal  pull,  she  had  ever  had  from 
lips  that  even  in  the  old  vociferous  years 
had  always  been  sharp.  The  next  moment 
she  was  on  her  mother's  breast,  where,  amid 
a  wilderness  of  trinkets,  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  been  thrust  into  a  jeweller's  shop- 
front,  but  only  to  be  as  suddenly  ejected  with 
a  push  and  the  brisk  injunction :  "  Now  go 
to  the  Captain  !  " 

Maisie  glanced  at  the  gentleman  submis- 
sively, but  felt  the  want  of  more  introduction. 
"The  Captain?" 


186      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Sir  Claude  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  I  told 
her  he  was  the  Baron." 

Ida  stared;  she  rose  so  superior  that  she 
was  colossal.  "  You  're  too  utterly  loath- 
some," she  then  ejaculated.  "Be  off!"  she 
repeated  to  her  daughter. 

Maisie  started,  moved  backward  and,  look- 
ing at  Sir  Claude,  "  Only  for  a  moment,"  she 
said  to  him  in  her  bewilderment. 

But  he  was  too  angry  to  heed  her — too 
angry  with  his  wife ;  as  she  turned  away  she 
heard  his  anger  break  out.  "  You  damned 

old  b !  "  She  could  n't  quite  hear  all. 

But  it  was  enough,  it  was  too  much :  she  fled 
before  it,  rushing  even  to  a  stranger  in  her 
terror  of  such  a  change  of  tone. 


XVI 

As  she  met  the  Captain's  light  blue  eyes 
the  greatest  wonder  occurred :  she  felt  a  sud- 
den relief  at  finding  them  reply  with  anxiety 
to  the  horror  in  her  face.  "What  in  the 
world  has  he  done?"  He  put  it  all  on  Sir 
Claude. 

"  He  has  called  her  a  damned  old  brute ! " 
She  could  n't  help  bringing  that  out. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      187 

The  Captain,  at  the  same  elevation  as  her 
ladyship,  gaped  wide;  then  of  course,  like 
every  one  else,  he  was  convulsed.  But  he 
instantly  caught  himself  up,  echoing  her 
bad  words.  "A  damned  old  brute  —  your 
mother?" 

Maisie  had  already  her  second  movement. 
"  I  think  she  tried  to  make  him  angry." 

The  Captain's  stupefaction  was  fine.  "  An- 
gry? —  she  f  Why,  she 's  an  angel !  " 

On  the  spot,  as  he  said  this,  his  face  won 
her  over ;  it  was  so  bright  and  kind  and  his 
blue  eyes  had  such  a  reflection  of  some  mys- 
terious grace  that,  for  him  at  least,  her  mother 
had  put  forth.  Her  fund  of  observation  en- 
abled her,  as  she  gazed  up  at  him,  to  place 
him :  he  was  a  candid,  simple  soldier,  very 
brave  —  she  came  back  to  that  —  but  at  the 
same  time  very  soft.  At  any  rate  he  struck  a 
note  that  was  new  to  her  and  that  after  a  moment 
made  her  say :  "  Do  you  like  her  very  much  ?  " 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  hesitating  but  look- 
ing pleasanter  and  pleasanter.  "  Let  me  tell 
you  about  your  mother !  " 

He  put  out  a  big  military  hand  which  she 
immediately  took,  and  they  turned  off  to- 
gether to  where  a  couple  of  chairs  had  been 
placed  under  one  of  the  trees.  "  She  told 


i88      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

me  to  come  to  you,"  Maisie  explained  as 
they  went;  and  presently  she  was  close  to 
him  in  one  of  the  chairs,  with  the  prettiest 
of  pictures,  the  sheen  of  the  lake  through 
other  trees  before  them  and  the  sound  of 
birds,  the  splash  of  boats,  the  play  of  children 
in  the  air.  The  Captain,  inclining  his  mili- 
tary person,  sat  sideways,  to  be  closer  and 
kinder,  and  as  her  hand  was  on  the  arm  of 
her  seat  he  put  his  own  down  on  it  again 
to  emphasize  something  he  had  to  say  that 
would  be  good  for  her  to  hear.  He  had 
already  told  her  how  her  mother,  from  the 
moment  of  seeing  her  so  unexpectedly  with 
a  person  who  was  —  well,  not  at  all  the  right 
person,  had  promptly  asked  him  to  take 
charge  of  her  while  she  herself  tackled,  as 
she  said,  the  real  culprit.  He  gave  the  child 
the  sense  of  doing  for  the  moment  what  he 
liked  with  her;  ten  minutes  before  she  had 
never  seen  him,  but  she  now  could  sit  there 
touching  him,  impressed  by  him  and  think- 
ing it  nice  when  a  gentleman  was  thin  and 
brown  —  brown  with  a  kind  of  clear  depth 
that  made  his  straw-colored  moustache  almost 
white  and  his  eyes  resemble  little  pale  flowers. 
The  most  extraordinary  thing  was  the  way 
she  did  n't  seem  for  the  time  to  mind  Sir 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW      189 

Claude's  being  "tackled."  The  Captain 
was  n't  a  bit  like  him ;  for  it  was  an  odd  part 
of  the  pleasantness  of  mamma's  friend  that 
it  resided  in  a  manner  in  this  friend's  being 
ugly.  An  odder  part  still  was  that  it  pres- 
ently made  our  young  lady,  to  classify  him 
further,  say  to  herself  that  of  all  people  in 
the  world  he  reminded  her  most  insidiously 
of  Mrs.  Wix.  He  had  neither  straighteners 
nor  a  diadem  nor,  at  least  in  the  same  place 
as  the  other,  a  button ;  he  was  sunburnt  and 
deep-voiced  and  smelt  of  cigars ;  yet  he  mar- 
vellously had  more  in  common  with  her  old 
governess  than  with  her  young  stepfather. 
What  he  had  to  say  to  her  that  was  good  for 
her  to  hear  was  that  her  poor  mother,  did  n't 
she  know?  was  the  best  friend  he  had  ever 
had  in  all  his  life.  And  he  added :  "  She 
has  told  me  ever  so  much  about  you.  I  'm 
awfully  glad  to  know  you." 

She  had  never,  she  thought,  been  so  ad- 
dressed as  a  young  lady;  not  even  by  Sir 
Claude  the  day  so  long  ago  that  she  found 
him  with  Mrs.  Beale.  It  struck  her  as  the 
way  that,  at  balls,  by  delightful  partners, 
young  ladies  must  be  spoken  to  in  the  in- 
tervals of  dances ;  and  she  tried  to  think  of 
something1  that  would  meet  it  at  the  same 


190      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

high  point.  But  this  effort  flurried  her  and 
all  she  could  produce  was :  "  At  first,  you 
know,  I  thought  you  were  Lord  Eric." 

The  Captain  looked  vague.     "  Lord  Eric?  " 

"And  then  Sir  Claude  thought  you  were 
the  Baron." 

At  this  he  resounded.  "  Why,  the  Baron's 
four  foot  high  and  as  red  as  a  lobster." 
Maisie  laughed  in  return  —  the  young  lady 
at  the  ball  certainly  would  —  and  was  on  the 
point,  as  conscientiously,  of  pursuing  the  sub- 
ject with  an  agreeable  question.  But  before 
she  could  speak  her  companion  asked  her 
one.  "  Who  in  the  world  's  Lord  Eric?" 

"  Don't  you  know  him?  "  —  she  judged  her 
young  lady  would  say  that  with  light  surprise. 

"  Do  you  mean  a  fat  man  with  his  mouth 
always  open  ?  "  She  had  to  confess  that  their 
acquaintance  was  so  limited  that  she  could 
only  describe  the  bearer  of  the  name  as  a 
friend  of  mamma's ;  but  a  light  suddenly 
came  to  the  Captain,  who  quickly  asserted 
that  he  knew  her  man.  "  What-do-you-call- 
him's  brother  —  the  fellow  that  owned  '  Bobo- 
link '  ?  "  Then,  with  all  his  niceness,  he  con- 
tradicted her  flat.  "  Oh,  dear  no  —  your 
mother  never  knew  him" 

"  But  Mrs.  Wix  said  so,"  the  child  risked. 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      191 

"Mrs.  Wix?" 

"  My  old  governess." 

This  again  seemed  amusing  to  the  Captain. 
"She  mixed  him  up,  your  old  governess. 
He's  an  awful  beast.  Your  mother  never 
looked  at  such  a  hog." 

He  was  as  positive  as  he  was  friendly,  but 
he  dropped  for  a  minute  after  this  into  a 
silence  that  gave  Maisie,  confused  but  in- 
genious, a  chance  to  redeem  the  mistake  of 
pretending  to  know  too  much  by  the  humility 
of  inviting  further  correction.  "  And  does  n't 
she  know  the  Baron?" 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  But  he 's  another  ass." 
After  which,  abruptly,  with  a  different  look, 
he  put  down  again  on  the  back  of  her 
own  the  hand  he  had  momentarily  removed. 
Maisie  even  thought  he  colored  a  little.  "  I 
want  tremendously  to  speak  to  you.  You 
must  never  believe  any  harm  of  your  mother." 

"Oh,  I  assure  you  I  dorit!"  she  cried, 
blushing,  herself,  up  to  her  eyes  in  a  sudden 
surge  of  deprecation  of  such  a  thought. 

The  Captain,  bending  his  head,  raised  her 
hand  to  his  lips  with  a  benevolence  that  made 
her  wish  her  glove  had  been  nicer.  "  Of 
course  you  don't  when  you  know  how  fond 
she  is  viyou" 


192      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  She  's  fond  of  me?"  Maisie  panted. 

"  Tremendously.  But  she  thinks  you  don't 
like  her.  You  must  like  her.  She  has  had 
too  much  to  bear." 

"  Oh,  yes  —  I  know !  "  She  rejoiced  that 
she  had  never  denied  it. 

"  Of  course  I  Ve  no  right  to  speak  of  her 
except  as  a  particular  friend,"  the  Captain 
went  on.  "  But  she 's  a  splendid  woman. 
She  has  never  had  any  sort  of  justice." 

"Hasn't  she?"  — the  child,  to  hear  the 
words,  felt  a  thrill  altogether  new. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  say  it  to  you  — 
but  she  has  had  everything  to  suffer." 

"  Oh,  yes  — you  can  say  it  to  me  !  "  Maisie 
hastened  to  profess. 

The  Captain  weighed  this.  "Well,  you 
needn't  tell.  It's  all  for  you  —  see?" 

Serious  and  smiling,  she  only  wanted  to  take 
it  from  him.  "It's  between  you  and  me? 
Oh,  there  are  lots  of  things  I  Ve  never  told." 

"  Well,  keep  this  with  the  rest.  I  assure  you 
she  has  had  the  most  infernal  time,  no  matter 
what  any  one  says  to  the  contrary.  She  's  the 
cleverest  woman  I  ever  saw  in  all  my  life. 
She 's  too  charming."  She  had  been  touched 
already  by  his  tone,  and  now  she  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  and  felt  something  tremble  within 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      193 

her.  "  She 's  tremendous  fun  —  she  can  do 
all  sorts  of  things  better  than  I  've  ever  seen 
anyone.  She  has  the  pluck  of  fifty — and 
I  know :  I  assure  you  I  do.  She  has  the  nerve 
for  a  tiger-shoot  —  by  Jove,  I  'd  take  her ! 
And  she 's  awfully  open  and  generous,  don't 
you  know?  —  there  are  women  that  are  such 
horrid  sneaks.  She  'd  go  through  anything 
for  any  one  she  likes."  He  appeared  to  watch 
for  a  moment  the  effect  on  his  companion  of 
this  emphasis ;  then  he  gave  a  small  sigh  that 
mourned  the  limits  of  the  speakable.  But  it 
was  almost  with  the  note  of  a  challenge  that 
he  wound  up :  "  Look  here  —  she 's  true  !  " 

Maisie  had  so  little  desire  to  assert  the  con- 
trary that  she  found  herself,  in  the  intensity  of 
her  response,  throbbing  with  a  joy  still  less 
utterable  than  the  essence  of  the  Captain's 
appreciation.  She  was  fairly  hushed  with  the 
sense  that  he  spoke  of  her  mother  as  she  had 
never  heard  any  one  speak.  It  came  over  her 
as  she  sat  silent  that,  after  all,  this  admiration 
and  this  respect  were  quite  new  words,  which 
took  a  distinction  from  the  fact  that  nothing  in 
the  least  resembling  them  in  quality  had  on 
any  occasion  dropped  from  the  lips  of  her 
father,  of  Mrs.  Beale,  of  Sir  Claude  or  even 
of  Mrs.  Wix.  What  it  appeared  to  her  to 
13 


194      WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

come  to  was  that,  on  the  subject  of  her  lady- 
ship, it  was  the  first  real  kindness  she  had 
heard,  so  that  at  the  touch  of  it  something 
strange  and  deep  and  pitying  surged  up  within 
her  —  a  revelation  that,  practically  and  so  far 
as  she  knew,  her  mother,  apart  from  this,  had 
only  been  disliked.  Mrs.  Wix's  original 
account  of  Sir  Claude's  affection  seemed  as 
empty  now  as  the  chorus  in  a  children's  game, 
and  the  husband  and  wife,  but  a  little  way  off 
at  that  moment,  were  face  to  face  in  hatred  and 
with  the  dreadful  name  he  had  called  her  still 
in  the  air.  What  was  it  the  Captain  on  the 
other  hand  had  called  her?  —  Maisie  wanted 
to  hear  that  again.  The  tears  filled  her  eyes 
and  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  which  burned 
under  them  with  the  rush  of  a  consciousness 
that  for  her  too,  five  minutes  before,  the  vivid, 
towering  beauty  whose  onset  she  awaited  had 
been  for  the  moment  an  object  of  pure  dread. 
She  became  indifferent  on  the  spot  to  her 
usual  fear  of  showing  what  in  children  was 
notoriously  most  offensive  —  she  presented  to 
her  companion,  soundlessly  but  hideously,  her 
wet,  distorted  face.  She  cried,  with  a  pang, 
straight  at  him,  cried  as  she  felt  that  she  had 
never  cried  at  any  one  in  all  her  life.  "  Oh, 
do  you  love  her?  "  she  brought  out  with  a  gulp 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      195 

that  was  the  effect  of  her  trying  not  to  make 
a  noise. 

It  was  doubtless  another  consequence  of  the 
thick  mist  through  which  she  saw  him  that,  in 
reply  to  her  question,  the  Captain  gave  her 
such  a  queer  blurred  look.  He  hesitated ;  yet 
in  his  voice  there  was  also  the  ring  of  a  great 
awkward  insistence.  "  Of  course  I  'm  tre- 
mendously fond  of  her —  I  like  her  better  than 
any  woman  I  ever  saw.  I  don't  mind  in  the 
least  telling  you  that,"  he  went  on ;  "  and  I 
should  think  myself  a  great  beast  if  I  did." 
Then,  to  show  that  his  position  was  superla- 
tively clear,  he  made  her,  with  a  kindness  that 
even  Sir  Claude  had  never  surpassed,  tremble 
again  as  she  had  trembled  at  his  first  outbreak. 
He  called  her  by  her  name,  and  her  name 
drove  it  home.  "  My  dear  Maisie,  your 
mother  's  an  angel !  " 

It  was  an  almost  incredible  balm  —  it 
soothed  so  her  impression  of  danger  and 
pain.  She  sank  back  in  her  chair;  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
mother,  mother,  mother  !  "  she  sobbed.  She 
had  a  vague  sense  that  the  Captain,  beside 
her,  though  more  and  more  friendly,  was  by 
no  means  unembarrassed ;  in  a  minute,  how- 
ever, when  her  eyes  were  clearer,  he  was  erect 


196      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

in  front  of  her,  very  red  and  nervously  looking 

about  him  and  whacking  his  leg  with  his  stick. 

"  Say  you  love  her,  Mr.  Captain  —  say  it,  say 

it !  "  she  implored. 

Mr.  Captain's  blue    eyes  fixed  themselves 

very  hard.     "  Of  course  I  love  her,  damn  it, 

you  know." 

At  this  she  also  jumped  up  ;  she  had  fished 

out  somehow  her  pocket-handkerchief.     "  So 

do  /,  then  —  I  do,  I  do,  I  do !  "  she  passion- 
ately cried. 

"  Then  will  you  come  back  to  her?  " 
Maisie,  staring,  stopped  the  tight  little  plug 

of  her  handkerchief  on  the  way  to  her  eyes. 

"  She  won't  have  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  she  will.     She  wants  you." 

"  Back  at  the  house  —  with  Sir  Claude  ?  " 

Again  he   stopped.     "No,  not  with    him. 

In  another  place." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  with  an 

intensity  unusual  as  between  a  Captain  and  a 

little  girl.     "  She  won't  have  me  in  any  place." 
"  Oh  yes,  she  will  —  if  /  ask  her." 
Maisie's  intensity  continued.     "  Shall  you 

be  there?" 

The  Captain's,  on  the  whole,  did  the  same, 

"  Oh  yes  —  some  day." 

"Then  you  don't  mean  now?  " 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW       197 

He  broke  into  a  quick  smile.  "  Will  you 
come  now?  —  go  with  us  for  an  hour?" 

Maisie  considered.  "  She  would  n't  have 
me  even  now." 

She  could  see  that  he  had  his  idea,  but  that 
her  tone  impressed  him.  That  disappointed 
her  a  little,  though  in  an  instant  he  rang  out 
again.  "  She  will  if  /  ask  her,"  he  repeated. 
"  I  '11  ask  her  this  minute." 

Maisie,  turning  at  this,  looked  away  to 
where  her  mother  and  her  stepfather  had 
stopped.  At  first,  among  the  trees,  nobody 
was  visible;  but  the  next  moment  she  ex- 
claimed with  expression :  "  It 's  over  —  here 
he  comes !  " 

The  Captain  watched  the  approach  of  her 
ladyship's  husband,  who  walked  slow  and 
composed  across  the  grass,  making,  with  his 
closed  fingers,  to  Maisie,  a  little  movement 
in  the  air.  "  I  Ve  no  desire  to  avoid  him." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  see  him,"  said  Maisie. 

"  Oh,  he's  in  no  hurry  himself!"  Sir 
Claude  had  stopped  to  light  another  cigarette. 

She  was  vague  as  to  the  way  it  was  proper 
he  should  feel ;  but  she  had  a  sense  that  the 
Captain's  remark  was  rather  a  free  reflection. 
"  Oh,  he  does  n't  care,"  she  replied. 

"  Does  n't  care  for  what?  " 


198      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  Does  n't  care  who  you  are.  He  told  me 
so.  Go  and  ask  mamma,"  she  added. 

"If  you  can  come  with  us?  Very  good. 
You  really  want  me  not  to  wait  for  him?" 

"  Please  don't."  But  Sir  Claude  was  not 
yet  near,  and  the  Captain  had  with  his  left 
hand  taken  hold  of  her  right,  which  he 
familiarly,  sociably  swung  a  little.  "Only 
first,"  she  continued,  "tell  me  this.  Are  you 
going  to  live  with  mamma?  " 

The  immemorial  note  broke  out  at  her 
seriousness.  "  One  of  these  days." 

She  wondered,  wholly  unperturbed  by  his 
laughter.  "  Then  where  will  Sir  Claude  be?  " 

"  He  '11  have  left  her  of  course." 

"  Does  he  really  intend  to  do  that?  " 

"  You  have  every  opportunity  to  ask  him." 

Maisie  shook  her  head  with  decision.  "  He 
won't  do  it.  Not  first." 

Her  "  first "  made  the  Captain  resound 
again.  "  Oh,  he  '11  be  sure  to  be  nasty !  But 
I've  said  too  much  to  you." 

"Well,  you  know,  I'll  never  tell,"  said 
Maisie. 

"  No,  it's  all  for  yourself.     Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye."  Maisie  kept  his  hand  long 
enough  to  add :  "  I  like  you,  too."  And 
then  supremely:  "  You  do  love  her?  " 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      199 

"  My  dear  child  —  !  "  The  Captain  wanted 
words. 

"  Then  don't  do  it  only  for  just  a  little." 

"A  little?" 

"  Like  all  the  others." 

"  Like  all  the  others?  "  —  he  stood  staring. 

She  pulled  away  her  hand.  "  Do  it  al- 
ways !  "  Then  she  bounded  to  meet  Sir 
Claude  and  as  she  left  the  Captain  she  heard 
him  sound  out  with  apparent  gayety :  "  Oh, 
I  '11  keep  it  up  !  "  As  she  joined  Sir  Claude 
she  perceived  her  mother,  in  the  distance, 
move  slowly  off;  and,  glancing  again  at 
the  Captain,  saw  him,  swinging  his  stick, 
retreat  in  the  same  direction. 

She  had  never  seen  Sir  Claude  look  as  he 
looked  just  then  ;  flushed,  yet  not  excited  — 
settled  rather  in  an  immovable  disgust  and 
at  once  very  sick  and  very  hard.  His  con- 
versation with  her  mother  had  clearly  drawn 
blood,  and  the  child's  old  horror  came  back 
to  her,  producing  the  instant  moral  contrac- 
tion of  the  days  when  her  parents  had  looked 
to  her  to  feed  their  love  of  battle.  Her  great- 
est fear  for  the  moment,  however,  was  that 
her  friend  would  see  she  had  been  crying. 
The  next  she  became  aware  that  he  glanced 
at  her  and  it  presently  occurred  to  her  that 


200      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

he  did  n't  wish  even  to  be  looked  at.  At 
this  she  quickly  removed  her  gaze,  and 
he  said  rather  curtly :  "  Well,  who  in  the 
world  is  the  fellow?" 

She  felt  herself  flooded  with  prudence. 
"  Oh,  /  have  n't  found  out !  "  This  sounded 
as  if  she  meant  he  ought  to  have  done  so 
himself;  but  she  could  only  face  doggedly 
the  ugliness  of  seeming  disagreeable  as  she 
used  to  face  it  in  the  hours  when  her  father, 
for  her  blankness,  called  her  a  dirty  little 
donkey  and  her  mother,  for  her  falsity,  pushed 
her  out  of  the  room. 

"  Then  what  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
time?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  It  was  of  the  essence 
of  her  method  not  to  be  silly  by  halves. 

"  Then  did  n't  the  scoundrel  say  anything?  " 
They  had  got  down  by  the  lake  and  were 
walking  fast. 

"  Well,  not  very  much." 

"  He  did  n't  speak  of  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  little." 

"Then  what  I  ask  you,  please,  is  how." 
She  was  silent  a  minute — so  long  that  he 
presently  went  on :  "I  say,  you  know  — 
don't  you  hear  me?  " 

At  this  she  produced:  "Well,  I'm  afraid 
I  did  n't  attend  to  him  very  much." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      201 

Sir  Claude,  smoking  rather  hard,  made  no 
immediate  rejoinder;  but  finally  he  ex- 
claimed: "Then,  my  dear,  you  were  the 
perfection  of  an  idiot !  "  He  was  so  irritated 

—  or  she  took  him  to  be  —  that  for  the  rest 
of  the  time  they  were  in  the  Gardens  he  spoke 
no   other  word;    and  she    meanwhile  subtly 
abstained  from  any  attempt  to    pacify  him. 
That  would   only   lead   to    more    questions. 
At  the  gate  of  the  Gardens  he  hailed  a  four- 
wheeled  cab  and  without  meeting  her  con- 
scious   eyes    put    her    into    it,    only   saying 
"  Give  him  that !  "  as  he  tossed  half  a  crown 
upon  the  seat.     Even  when  from  outside  he 
had  closed  the  door  and  told  the  man  where 
to    go    he   never   took   her   departing   look. 
Nothing  of  this  kind  had  ever  yet  happened 
to  them,  but  it  had  no  power  to  make  her 
love  him  less,  and  she  could  not  only  bear  it 

—  she  felt  as  she  drove  away  that  she  could  re- 
joice in  it.     It  brought  again  the  sweet  sense 
of  success  that,  ages  before,  she  had  had  on 
an   occasion  when,  on   the   stairs,  returning 
from  her  father's,  she  had  met  a  fierce  ques- 
tion of  her  mother's  with  an    imbecility  as 
studied  and  had  in  consequence  been  dashed 
by  Mrs.  Farange  almost  to  the  bottom. 


202      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


XVII 

IF  for  reasons  wholly  her  own  she  could 
bear  the  sense  of  Sir  Claude's  displeasure 
her  young  endurance  might  have  been  put 
to  a  serious  test.  The  days  went  by  without 
his  knocking  at  her  father's  door,  and  the 
time  would  have  turned  to  dreariness  if  some- 
thing had  not  conspicuously  happened  to  give 
it  a  new  difference.  What  took  place  was  a 
marked  change  in  the  attitude  of  Mrs.  Beale 
—  a  change  that  somehow  even  in  his  absence 
seemed  to  bring  Sir  Claude  again  into  the 
house.  It  began  practically  with  a  con- 
versation that  occurred  between  them  the 
day  Maisie  came  home  alone  in  the  cab. 
Mrs.  Beale  had  by  that  time  returned,  and 
she  was  more  successful  than  their  friend  in 
extracting  from  our  young  lady  an  account 
of  the  extraordinary  passage  with  the  Cap- 
tain. She  came  back  to  it  repeatedly,  and 
on  the  very  next  day  it  grew  distinct  to 
Maisie  that  she  was  already  in  full  possession 
of  what  at  the  same  moment  had  been  en- 
acted between  her  ladyship  and  Sir  Claude. 
This  was  the  real  origin  of  her  final  perception 
that  though  he  did  n't  come  to  the  house 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      203 

her  stepmother  had  some  subtle  secret  for 
not  being  bereft  of  him.  That  produced 
eventually  a  strange,  a  deeper  communion 
with  Mrs.  Beale,  the  first  sign  of  which  had 
been  —  not  on  Maisie's  part  —  a  wonderful 
outbreak  of  tears.  Mrs.  Beale  was  not,  as 
she  herself  said,  a  crying  creature;  she  had 
not  cried,  to  Maisie's  knowledge,  since  the 
lowly  governess  days,  the  gray  dawn  of  their 
connection.  But  she  wept  now  with  passion, 
professing  loudly  that  it  did  her  good  and 
saying  remarkable  things  to  the  child,  for 
whom  the  occasion  was  an  equal  benefit,  an 
addition  to  all  the  fine  reasons  stored  up  for 
not  making  anything  worse.  It  had  n't  some- 
how made  anything  worse,  Maisie  felt,  for 
her  to  have  told  Mrs.  Beale  what  she  had 
not  told  Sir  Claude,  inasmuch  as  the  greatest 
strain,  to  her  sense,  was  between  Sir  Claude 
and  Sir  Claude's  wife,  and  his  wife  was  just 
what  Mrs.  Beale  was  unfortunately  not.  He 
sent  his  stepdaughter  three  days  after  the 
incident  in  Kensington  Gardens  a  message 
as  frank  as  it  was  tender,  and  that  was  how 
Mrs.  Beale  had  had  to  bring  out  in  a  manner 
that  seemed  half  an  appeal,  half  a  defiance : 
"  Well,  yes,  hang  it  —  I  do  see  him  !  " 

How  and  when  and  where,  however,  were 


204      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

just  what  Maisie  was  not  to  know  —  an  ex- 
clusion moreover  that  she  never  questioned 
in  the  light  of  a  participation  large  enough 
to  make  him,  in  hours  of  solitude  with  Mrs. 
Beale,  present  like  a  picture  on  the  wall.  As 
far  as  her  father  was  concerned  such  hours 
had  no  interruption ;  and  then  it  was  clear 
between  them  that  they  were  each  thinking 
of  the  absent  and  each  thinking  that  the 
other  thought;  so  that  he  was  an  object  of 
conscious  reference  in  everything  they  said 
or  did.  The  wretched  truth,  Mrs.  Beale  had 
to  confess,  was  that  she  had  hoped  against 
hope  and  that  in  the  Regent's  Park  it  was 
impossible  Sir  Claude  should  really  be  in  and 
out.  Had  n't  they  at  last  to  look  the  fact  in 
the  face?  —  it  was  too  disgustingly  evident 
that  no  one  after  all  had  been  squared. 
Well,  if  no  one  had  been  squared  it  was  be- 
cause every  one  had  been  vile.  No  one  and 
every  one  were  of  course  Beale  and  Ida,  the 
extent  of  whose  power  to  be  nasty  was  a 
thing  that,  to  a  little  girl,  Mrs.  Beale  simply 
could  n't  communicate.  Therefore  it  was 
that  to  keep  going  at  all,  as  she  said,  that 
lady  had  to  make,  as  she  also  said,  another 
arrangement  —  the  arrangement  in  which 
Maisie  was  included  only  to  the  point  of 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      205 

knowing  that  it  existed  and  wondering  wist- 
fully what  it  was.  Conspicuously  at  any 
rate  it  had  a  side  that  was  responsible  for 
Mrs.  Beale's  sudden  emotion  and  sudden  con- 
fidence —  a  demonstration,  however,  of  which 
the  tearfulness  was  far  from  deterrent  to  our 
heroine's  thought  of  how  happy  she  should 
be  if  she  could  only  make  an  arrangement 
for  herself.  Mrs.  Beale's  own  operated,  it 
appeared,  with  regularity  and  frequency;  for 
it  was  almost  every  day  or  two  that  she  was 
able  to  bring  Maisie  a  message  and  to  take  one 
back.  It  had  been  over  the  vision  of  what, 
as  she  called  it,  he  did  for  her  that  she  broke 
down ;  and  this  vision  was  kept  in  a  manner 
before  Maisie  by  a  subsequent  increase  not 
only  of  the  gayety,  but  literally  —  it  seemed 
not  presumptuous  to  perceive  —  of  the  actual 
virtue  of  her  friend.  The  friend  was  herself 
the  first  to  proclaim  it :  he  had  pulled  her  up 
immensely  —  he  had  quite  pulled  her  round. 
She  had  charming,  tormenting  words  about 
him  :  he  was  her  good  fairy,  her  hidden  spring 
—  above  all  he  was  just  her  conscience. 
That  was  what  had  particularly  come  out  with 
her  startling  tears :  he  had  made  her,  dear 
man,  think  ever  so  much  better  of  herself. 
It  had  been  thus  rather  surprisingly  revealed 


206      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

that  she  had  been  in  a  way  to  think  ill,  and 
Maisie  was  glad  to  hear  of  the  corrective  at 
the  same  time  that  she  heard  of  the  ailment. 

She  presently  found  herself  supposing  and 
in  spite  of  her  envy  even  hoping  that  when- 
ever Mrs.  Beale  was  out  of  the  house  Sir 
Claude  had  in  some  manner  the  satisfaction 
of  it.  This  was  now  of  more  frequent  oc- 
currence than  ever  before  —  so  much  so  that 
she  would  have  thought  of  her  stepmother 
as  almost  extravagantly  absent  had  it  not 
been  that  in  the  first  place  her  father  was  a 
superior  specimen  of  that  habit:  it  was  the 
frequent  remark  of  his  present  wife,  as  it  had 
been  before  the  tribunals  of  their  country  a 
conspicuous  plea  of  her  predecessor,  that  he 
scarce  came  home  even  to  sleep.  In  the 
second  place  Mrs.  Beale,  when  she  was  on 
the  spot,  had  now  a  beautiful  air  of  longing 
to  make  up  for  everything.  The  only  shadow 
in  such  bright  intervals  was  that,  as  Maisie 
put  it  to  herself,  she  could  get  nothing  by 
questions.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  things  to 
be  none  of  a  small  child's  business  even 
when  a  small  child  had  from  the  first  been 
deluded  into  a  fear  that  she  might  be  only 
too  much  initiated.  Things  then  were  in 
Maisie's  experience  so  true  to  their  nature 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       207 

that  questions  were  almost  always  improper ; 
but  she  learned  on  the  other  hand  soon  to 
recognize  that  patient  little  silences  and  in- 
telligent little  looks  could  be  rewarded  from 
time  to  time  by  delightful  little  glimpses. 
There  had  been  years  at  Beale  Farange's 
when  the  monosyllable  "  he  "  meant  always, 
meant  almost  violently  the  master;  but  all 
that  was  changed  at  a  period  at  which  Sir 
Claude's  merits  were  of  themselves  so  much 
in  the  air  that  it  scarce  took  even  two  letters 
to  name  him.  "  He  keeps  me  up  splendidly 
—  he  does,  my  own  precious,"  Mrs.  Beale 
would  observe  to  her  companion ;  or  else 
she  would  say  that  the  situation  at  the  other 
establishment  had  reached  a  point  that  could 
scarcely  be  believed  —  the  point,  monstrous 
as  it  sounded,  of  his  not  having  laid  eyes  upon 
her  for  twelve  days.  "  Her "  of  course  at 
Beale  Farange's  had  never  meant  any  one 
but  Ida,  and  there  was  the  difference  in  this 
case  that  it  now  meant  Ida  with  renewed  in- 
tensity. Mrs.  Beale  was  in  a  position  strik- 
ingly to  animadvert  more  and  more  upon  her 
dreadfulness,  the  moral  of  all  which  appeared 
to  be  how  abominably  yet  blessedly  little  she 
had  to  do  with  her  husband.  This  flow  of 
information  came  home  to  our  two  friends 


208      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

because  truly  Mrs.  Beale  had  not  much 
more  to  do  with  her  own ;  but  that  was  one 
of  the  reflections  that  Maisie  could  make 
without  allowing  it  to  break  the  spell  of  her 
present  sympathy.  How  could  such  a  spell 
be  anything  but  deep  when  Sir  Claude's  in- 
fluence, though  operating  from  afar,  at  last 
really  determined  the  resumption  of  his 
stepdaughter's  studies?  Mrs.  Beale  again 
took  fire  about  them  and  was  quite  vivid, 
for  Maisie,  as  to  their  being  the  great 
matter  to  which  the  absent  friend  kept  her 
up. 

This  was  the  second  source  —  I  have  just 
alluded  to  the  first  —  of  the  child's  conscious- 
ness of  something  that,  very  hopefully,  she 
described  to  herself  as  a  new  phase ;  and  it 
also  presented  in  the  brightest  light  the  fresh 
enthusiasm  with  which  Mrs.  Beale  always  re- 
appeared and  which  really  gave  Maisie  a 
happier  sense  than  she  had  yet  had  of  being 
very  dear  at  least  to  two  persons.  That  she 
had  small  remembrance  at  present  of  a  third 
illustrates,  I  am  afraid,  a  temporary  oblivion 
of  Mrs.  Wix,  an  accident  to  be  explained 
only  by  a  state  of  unnatural  excitement.  For 
what  was  the  form  taken  by  Mrs.  Beale's  en- 
thusiasm and  acquiring  relief  in  the  domestic 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      209 

conditions  still  left  to  her  but  the  delightful 
form  of  "  reading  "  with  her  little  charge  on 
lines  directly  prescribed  and  in  works  pro- 
fusely supplied  by  Sir  Claude  ?  He  had  got 
hold  of  an  awfully  good  list  —  "mostly  es- 
says, don't  you  know?  "  Mrs.  Beale  had  said ; 
a  word  always  august  to  Maisie,  but  hence- 
forth to  be  softened  by  hazy,  in  fact  by  quite 
languorous  edges.  There  was  at  any  rate  a 
week  in  which  no  less  than  nine  volumes  ar- 
rived, and  the  impression  was  to  be  gathered 
from  Mrs.  Beale  that  the  obscure  intercourse 
she  enjoyed  with  Sir  Claude  not  only  involved 
an  account  and  a  criticism  of  studies,  but  was 
organized  almost  for  the  very  purpose  of  re- 
port and  consultation.  It  was  for  Maisie's 
education  in  short  that,  as  she  often  re- 
peated, she  closed  her  door  —  closed  it  to  the 
gentlemen  who  used  to  flock  there  in  such 
numbers  and  whom  her  husband's  practical 
desertion  of  her  would  have  made  it  a  course 
of  the  highest  indelicacy  to  receive.  Maisie 
was  familiar  from  of  old  with  the  principle 
at  least  of  the  care  that  a  woman,  as  Mrs. 
Beale  phrased  it,  attractive  and  exposed 
must  take  of  her  tc  character,"  and  was  duly 
impressed  with  the  rigor  of  her  stepmother's 
scruples.  There  was  literally  no  one  of  the 
14 


210      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

other  sex  whom  she  appeared  to  feel  at  lib- 
erty to  see  at  home,  and  when  the  child 
risked  an  inquiry  about  the  ladies  who  one 
by  one,  during  her  own  previous  period,  had 
been  made  quite  loudly  welcome,  Mrs.  Beale 
hastened  to  inform  her  that  one  by  one  they 
had,  the  fiends,  been  found  out  after  all  to 
be  awful.  If  she  wished  to  know  more  about 
them  she  was  recommended  to  approach  her 
father. 

Maisie  had,  however,  at  the  very  moment 
of  this  injunction  much  livelier  curiosities> 
for  the  dream  of  lectures  at  an  institution 
had  at  last  become  a  reality,  thanks  to  Sir 
Claude's  now  unbounded  energy  in  discover- 
ing what  could  be  done.  It  appeared  in  this 
connection  that  when  you  came  to  look  into 
things  in  a  spirit  of  earnestness  an  immense 
deal  could  be  done  for  very  little  more  than 
your  fare  in  the  Underground.  The  institu- 
tion —  there  was  a  splendid  one  in  a  part  of 
the  town  but  little  known  to  the  child  —  be- 
came in  the  glow  of  such  a  spirit  a  thrilling 
place,  and  the  walk  to  it  from  the  station 
through  Glower  Street  —  a  pronunciation  for 
which  Mrs.  Beale  once  laughed  at  her  little 
friend  —  a  pathway  literally  strewn  with 
"subjects."  Maisie  seemed  to  herself  to 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      211 

pluck  them  as  she  passed,  though  they  thick- 
ened in  the  great  gray  rooms  where  the  foun- 
tain of  knowledge,  in  the  form  usually  of  a 
high  voice  that  she  took  at  first  to  be  angry, 
plashed  in  the  stillness  of  rows  of  faces  thrust 
out  like  empty  jugs.  "  It  must  do  us  good 
—  it 's  all  so  hideous,"  Mrs.  Beale  had  imme- 
diately declared,  manifesting  a  purity  of  reso- 
lution that  made  these  occasions  quite  the 
most  harmonious  of  all  the  many  on  which 
the  pair  had  pulled  together.  Maisie  cer- 
tainly had  never  in  such  an  association  felt 
so  uplifted  and  never  above  all  been  so  car- 
ried off  her  feet  as  at  the  moments  of  Mrs. 
Beale's  breathlessly  re-entering  the  house 
and  fairly  shrieking  upstairs  to  know  if  they 
would  still  be  in  time  for  a  lecture.  Her 
stepdaughter,  all  ready  from  the  earliest 
hours,  almost  leaped  over  the  banister  to 
respond,  and  they  dashed  out  together  in 
quest  of  learning  as  hard  as  they  often  dashed 
back  to  release  Mrs.  Beale  for  other  preoccu- 
pations. There  had  been  in  short  no  bustle 
like  it  since  that  last  brief  flurry  when  Mrs. 
Wix,  blowing  as  if  she  were  grooming  her, 
"  made  up  "  for  everything  previously  lost  at 
her  father's. 

These  weeks  as  well  were  too  few,  but 


212      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

they  were  flooded  with  a  new  emotion,  a  part 
of  which  indeed  came  from  the  possibility 
that,  through  the  long  telescope  of  Glower 
Street,  or  perhaps  between  the  pillars  of  the 
institution  —  which  were  what  Maisie  thought 
most  made  it  one  —  they  should  some  day 
spy  Sir  Claude.  That  was  what  Mrs.  Beale, 
under  pressure,  had  said  —  doubtless  a  little 
impatiently :  "  Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes ;  some  day !  " 
His  joining  them  was  clearly  far  less  of  a 
matter  of  course  than  was  to  have  been  gath- 
ered from  his  original  profession  of  desire  to 
improve  in  their  company  his  own  mind; 
and  this  sharpened  our  young  lady's  guess 
that  since  that  occasion  either  something 
destructive  had  happened  or  something  de- 
sirable had  n't.  Mrs.  Beale  had  thrown  but  a 
partial  light  in  telling  her  how  it  had  turned 
out  that  nobody  had  been  squared.  Maisie 
wished  at  any  rate  that  somebody  would  be 
squared.  However,  though  in  every  ap- 
proach to  the  temple  of  knowledge  she 
watched  in  vain  for  Sir  Claude,  there  was  no 
doubt  about  the  action  of  his  loved  image  as 
an  incentive  and  a  recompense.  When  the 
institution  was  most  on  pillars  —  or,  as  Mrs. 
Beale  put  it,  on  stilts  —  when  the  subject  was 
deepest  and  the  lecture  longest  and  the  lis- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       213 

teners  ugliest,  then  it  was  they  both  felt  their 
absent  protector  would  be  most  pleased  with 
them. 

One  day,  unexpectedly,  in  the  midst  of  his 
absence,  Mrs.  Beale  said  to  her  companion : 
"We'll  go  to-night  to  the  thingumbob  at 
Earl's  Court;  "  an  announcement  putting 
forth  its  full  lustre  when  she  had  made 
known  that  she  referred  to  the  great  Exhibi- 
tion just  opened  in  that  quarter,  a  collection 
of  extraordinary  foreign  things  in  tremen- 
dous gardens,  with  illuminations,  bands,  ele- 
phants, switchbacks  and  sideshows,  as  well 
as  crowds  of  people  among  whom  they  might 
possibly  see  some  one  they  knew.  Maisie 
flew  in  the  same  bound  at  the  neck  of  her 
friend  and  at  the  name  of  Sir  Claude,  on 
which  Mrs.  Beale  confessed  that  —  well,  yes, 
there  was  just  a  chance  that  he  would  be  able 
to  meet  them.  He  never  of  course  in  his 
terrible  position  knew  what  might  happen 
from  hour  to  hour ;  but  he  hoped  to  be  free 
and  he  had  given  Mrs.  Beale  the  tip.  "  Bring 
her  there  on  the  quiet,  and  I  '11  try  to  turn 
up"  —  this  was  clear  enough  on  what  so 
many  weeks  of  privation  had  made  of  his 
desire  to  see  the  child :  it  even  appeared  to 
represent  on  his  part  a  yearning  as  constant 


214      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

as  her  own.  That  in  turn  was  just  puzzling 
enough  to  make  Maisie  express  a  bewilder- 
ment. She  could  n't  see,  if  they  were  so 
intensely  of  the  same  mind,  why  the  theory 
on  which  she  had  come  back  to  Mrs.  Beale 
—  the  general  reunion,  the  delightful  trio, 
should  have  broken  down  so  in  fact.  Mrs. 
Beale,  however,  only  gave  her  more  to  think 
about  in  saying  that  their  disappointment 
was  the  result  of  his  having  got  into  his  head 
a  kind  of  idea. 

"What  kind  of  idea?" 

"  Oh,  goodness  knows  !  "  She  spoke  with 
an  approach  to  asperity.  "  He 's  so  awfully 
delicate." 

"  Delicate?  "  —  that  was  ambiguous. 

"About  what  he  does,  don't  you  know?" 
said  Mrs.  Beale.  She  made  it  clearer. 
"Well,  about  what  we  do." 

Maisie  wondered.     "  You  and  me?  " 

"  Me  and  him,  silly  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Beale  with, 
this  time,  a  real  giggle. 

"  But  you  don't  do  any  harm  — you 
don't,"  said  Maisie,  wondering  afresh  and 
intending  her  emphasis  as  a  resigned  allusion 
to  her  parents. 

"  Of  course  we  don't,  you  angel  —  that 's 
just  the  ground  /  take ! "  her  companion 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      215 

exultantly  responded.  "  He  says  he  does  n't 
want  you  mixed  up." 

"  Mixed  up  with  what?  " 

"  That 's  exactly  what  /  want  to  know : 
mixed  up  with  what,  and  how  you  are  any 
more  mixed  —  ? "  But  Mrs.  Beale  paused 
without  ending  her  question.  She  ended 
after  an  instant  in  a  different  way.  "  All  you 
can  say  is  it 's  his  fancy." 

The  tone  of  this,  in  spite  of  its  expressing 
a  resignation,  the  fruit  of  weariness,  that  dis- 
missed the  subject,  conveyed  so  vividly  how 
much  such  a  fancy  was  not  Mrs.  Beale's  own 
that  our  young  lady  was  led  by  the  mere  fact 
of  contact  to  arrive  at  a  dim  apprehension 
of  the  unuttered  and  the  unknown.  The 
relation  between  her  step-parents  had  then 
a  kind  of  mysterious  residuum :  this  was  the 
first  time  she  really  had  reflected  that  except 
as  regards  herself  it  was  not  a  relationship. 
To  each  other  it  was  only  what  they  might 
happen  to  make  it,  and  she  gathered  that 
this,  in  the  event,  had  been  something  that 
led  Sir  Claude  to  keep  away  from  her. 
Did  n't  he  fear  she  would  be  compromised  ? 
The  perception  of  such  a  scruple  endeared 
him  the  more,  and  it  flashed  over  her  that 
she  might  simplify  everything  by  showing 


216      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

him  how  little  she  made  of  such  a  danger. 
Had  n't  she  lived  with  her  eyes  on  it  from 
her  third  year?  It  was  the  condition  most 
frequently  discussed  at  the  Faranges',  where 
the  word  was  always  in  the  air  and  where  at 
the  age  of  five,  amid  rounds  of  applause,  she 
could  gabble  it  off.  She  knew  as  well  in 
short  that  a  person  could  be  compromised  as 
that  a  person  could  be  slapped  with  a  hair- 
brush or  left  alone  in  the  dark,  and  it  was 
equally  familiar  to  her  that  each  of  these  or- 
deals was  in  general  held  to  have  too  little 
effect.  But  the  first  thing  was  to  make 
absolutely  sure  of  Mrs.  Beale.  This  was 
done  by  saying  to  her  thoughtfully:  "Well, 
if  you  don't  mind  —  and  you  really  don't,  do 
you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Beale,  with  a  dawn  of  amusement, 
considered.  "Mixing  you  up?  Not  a  bit. 
For  what  does  it  mean?  " 

"Whatever  it  means,  I  don't  in  the  least 
mind  being  mixed.  Therefore  if  you  don't 
and  I  don't,"  Maisie  continued,  "  don't  you 
think  that  when  I  see  him  this  evening  I  had 
better  just  tell  him  we  don't  and  ask  him 
why  in  the  world  he  should?" 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW      217 


XVIII 

THE  child,  however,  was  not  destined  to  en- 
joy much  of  Sir  Claude  at  the  "  thingum- 
bob," which  took  for  them  a  very  different 
turn  indeed.  On  the  spot  Mrs.  Beale,  with 
hilarity,  had  urged  her  to  the  course  pro- 
posed ;  but  later,  at  the  Exhibition,  she  with- 
drew this  allowance,  mentioning,  as  a  result 
of  second  thoughts,  that  when  a  man  was  so 
sensitive  such  a  communication  might  only 
make  him  worse.  It  would  have  been  hard 
indeed  for  Sir  Claude  to  be  "worse,"  Maisie 
felt,  as,  in  the  gardens  and  the  crowd,  when 
the  first  dazzle  had  dropped,  she  looked  for 
him  in  vain  up  and  down.  They  had  all 
their  time,  the  couple,  for  frugal,  wistful  wan- 
dering :  they  had  partaken  together,  at  home, 
of  the  light,  vague  meal  —  Maisie's  name  for 
it  was  a  "jam-supper" — to  which  they  were 
reduced  when  Mr.  Farange  sought  his  pleas- 
ure abroad.  It  was  abroad  now,  entirely, 
that  Mr.  Farange  cultivated  this  philosophy, 
and  it  was  the  actual  impression  of  his 
daughter,  derived  from  his  wife,  that  he  had 
three  days  before  joined  a  friend's  yacht  at 
Cowes. 


218      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

The  place  was  full  of  sideshows,  to  which 
Mrs.  Beale  could  introduce  the  little  girl  only, 
alas !  by  revealing  to  her  so  attractive,  so 
enthralling  a  name:  the  sideshows,  each 
time,  were  sixpence  apiece,  and  the  fond  al- 
legiance enjoyed  by  the  elder  of  our  pair  had 
been  established  from  the  earliest  time  in 
spite  of  a  paucity  of  sixpences.  Small  coin 
dropped  from  her  as  half-heartedly  as  answers 
from  bad  children  to  lessons  that  had  not 
been  looked  at.  Maisie  passed  more  slowly 
the  great  painted  posters,  pressing,  with  a 
linked  arm,  closer  to  her  friend's  pocket, 
where  she  hoped  for  the  sensible  stir  of  a 
shilling.  But  the  upshot  of  this  was  but  to 
deepen  her  yearning:  if  Sir  Claude  would 
only  at  last  come  the  shillings  would  begin 
to  flow.  The  companions  paused,  for  want 
of  one,  before  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  a 
large  presentment  of  bright  brown  ladies  — 
they  were  brown  all  over  —  in  a  medium  sug- 
gestive of  tropical  luxuriance,  and  there 
Maisie  dolorously  expressed  her  belief  that 
he  would  never  come  at  all.  Mrs.  Beale 
hereupon,  though  discernibly  disappointed, 
reminded  her  that  he  had  not  been  promised 
as  a  certainty — a  remark  that  caused  the 
child  to  gaze  at  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      219 

through  a  blur  in  which  they  became  more 
magnificent,  yet  oddly  more  confused,  and 
by  which  moreover  confusion  was  imparted 
to  the  aspect  of  a  gentleman  who  at  that  mo- 
ment, in  the  company  of  a  lady,  came  out  of 
the  brilliant  booth.  The  lady  was  so  brown 
that  Maisie  at  first  took  her  for  one  of  the 
Flowers;  but  during  the  few  seconds  that 
this  required  —  a  few  seconds  in  which  she 
had  also  desolately  given  up  Sir  Claude  — 
she  heard  Mrs.  Beale's  voice,  behind  her, 
gather  both  wonder  and  pain  into  a  single 
sharp  little  cry. 

"  Of  all  the  wickedness  —  Beale  /  " 

He  had  already,  without  distinguishing 
them  in  the  mass  of  strollers,  turned  another 
way — it  seemed  at  the  brown  lady's  sug- 
gestion. Her  course  was  marked,  over  heads 
and  shoulders,  by  an  upright  scarlet  plume, 
as  to  the  ownership  of  which  Maisie  was  in- 
stantly eager.  "  Who  is  she  ?  —  who  is  she?  " 

But  Mrs.  Beale,  for  a  moment,  only  looked 
after  them.  "  The  liar  —  the  liar !  " 

Maisie  considered.  "  Because  he's  not  — 
where  one  thought !  "  That  was  also,  a  month 
ago  in  Kensington  Gardens,  where  her 
mother  had  not  been.  "  Perhaps  he  has 
come  back,"  she  insinuated. 


220      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

"  He  never  went  —  the  hound  !  " 

That,  according  to  Sir  Claude,  had  been 
also  what  her  mother  had  not  done,  and 
Maisie  could  only  have  a  sense  of  something 
that  in  a  maturer  mind  would  be  called  the 
way  history  repeats  itself.  "  Who  is  she  ?  " 
she  asked  again. 

Mrs.  Beale,  fixed  to  the  spot,  seemed  lost 
in  the  vision  of  an  opportunity  missed.  "  If 
he  had  only  seen  me !  "  —  it  came  from  be- 
tween her  teeth.  "  She 's  a  bran-new  one. 
But  he  must  have  been  with  her  since  Tues- 
day." 

Maisie  took  it  in.  "  She 's  almost  black," 
she  then  observed. 

"  They  're  always  hideous,"  said  Mrs. 
Beale. 

This  was  a  remark  on  which  the  child  had 
again  to  reflect.  "  Oh,  not  his  wives  !  "  she 
remonstrantly  exclaimed.  The  words  at  an- 
other moment  would  probably  have  set  her 
friend  off,  but  Mrs.  Beale  was  now  too  intent 
in  seeing  what  became  of  the  others.  "  Did 
you  ever  in  your  life  see  such  a  feather?" 
Maisie  presently  continued. 

This  decoration  appeared  to  have  paused 
at  some  distance,  and  in  spite  of  intervening 
groups  they  could  both  look  at  it.  "  Oh, 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       221 

that 's  the  way  they  dress  —  the  vulgarest  of 
the  vulgar ! " 

"They're  coming  back  —  they'll  see  us!  " 
Maisie  the  next  moment  announced:  and 
while  her  companion  answered  that  this  was 
exactly  what  she  wanted,  and  the  child  re- 
turned "  Here  they  are  —  here  they  are  !  " 
the  unconscious  objects  of  so  much  attention, 
with  a  change  of  mind  about  their  direction, 
quickly  retraced  their  steps  and  precipitated 
themselves  upon  their  critics.  Their  uncon- 
sciousness gave  Mrs.  Beale  time  to  leap, 
under  her  breath,  to  a  recognition  which 
Maisie  caught. 

"  It  must  be  Mrs.  Cuddon  !  " 

Maisie  looked  at  Mrs.  Cuddon  hard  —  her 
lips  even  echoed  the  name.  What  followed 
was  extraordinarily  rapid  —  a  minute  of  live- 
lier battle  than  had  ever  yet,  in  so  short  a 
span  at  least,  been  waged  round  our  heroine. 
The  muffled  shock — lest  people  should 
notice  —  was  so  violent  that  it  was  only  for 
her  later  thought  the  steps  fell  into  their 
order,  the  steps  through  which,  in  a  bewilder- 
ment not  so  much  of  sound  as  of  silence,  she 
had  come  to  find  herself,  too  soon  for  com- 
prehension and  too  strangely  for  fear,  at  the 
door  of  the  Exhibition  with  her  father.  He 


222      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

thrust  her  into  a  hansom  and  got  in  after  her, 
and  then  it  was  —  as  she  drove  along  with 
him  —  that  she  recovered  a  little  what  had 
happened.  Face  to  face  with  them  in  the 
gardens  he  had  seen  them,  and  there  had 
been  a  moment  of  checked  concussion  during 
which,  in  a  glare  of  black  eyes  and  a  toss  of 
red  plumage,  Mrs.  Cuddon  had  recognized 
them,  ejaculated  and  vanished.  There  had 
been  another  moment  at  which  she  became 
aware  of  Sir  Claude,  also  poised  there  in  sur- 
prise, but  out  of  her  father's  view,  as  if  he 
had  been  warned  off  at  the  very  moment  of 
reaching  them.  It  fell  into  its  place  with  all 
the  rest  that  she  had  heard  Mrs.  Beale  say  to 
her  father,  but  whether  low  or  loud  was  now 
lost  to  her,  something  about  his  having  this 
time  a  new  one;  to  which  he  had  growled 
something  indistinct,  but  apparently  in  the 
tone  and  of  the  sort  that  the  child,  from  her 
earliest  years,  had  associated  with  hearing 
somebody  retort  to  somebody  that  some- 
body was  "  another."  "  Oh,  I  stick  to  the 
old !  "  Mrs.  Beale  had  exclaimed  at  this,  and 
her  accent,  even  as  the  cab  got  away,  was 
still  in  the  air,  for  Maisie's  companion  had 
spoken  no  other  word  from  the  moment  of 
whisking  her  off —  none  at  least  save  the  in- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      223 

distinguishable  address  which,  over  the  top 
of  the  hansom  and  poised  on  the  step,  he 
had  given  the  driver.  Reconstructing  these 
things  later,  Maisie  believed  that  she  at  this 
point  would  have  put  a  question  to  him  had 
not  the  silence  into  which  he  charmed  her 
or  scared  her  —  she  could  scarce  know  which 
—  come  from  his  suddenly  making  her  feel 
his  arm  about  her,  feel,  as  he  drew  her  close, 
that  he  was  agitated  in  a  way  he  had  never 
yet  shown  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
trembled,  trembled  too  much  to  speak,  and 
this  had  the  effect  of  making  her,  with  an 
emotion  which,  though  it  had  begun  to  throb 
in  an  instant,  was  by  no  means  all  dread,  con- 
form to  his  portentous  hush.  The  act  of 
possession  that  his  pressure  in  a  manner  ad- 
vertised came  back  to  her  after  the  longest 
of  the  long  intermissions  that  had  ever  let 
anything  come  back.  They  drove  and  drove, 
and  he  kept  her  close ;  she  stared  straight 
before  her,  holding  her  breath,  watching  one 
dark  street  succeed  another,  and  strangely 
conscious  that  what  it  all  meant  was  some- 
how that  papa  was  less  to  be  left  out  of 
everything  than  she  had  supposed.  It  took 
her  but  a  minute  to  surrender  to  this  dis- 
covery, which,  in  the  form  of  his  present  em- 


224      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

brace,  suggested  a  fresh  kind  of  importance 
in  him  and  with  that  a  confused  confidence. 
She  neither  knew  exactly  what  he  had  done 
nor  what  he  was  doing;  she  could  only  be 
rather  impressed  and  a  little  proud,  vibrate 
with  the  sense  that  he  had  jumped  up  to  do 
something  and  that  she  had  as  quickly  be- 
come a  part  of  it.  It  was  a  part  of  it  too 
that  here  they  were  at  a  house  that  seemed 
not  large,  but  in  the  fresh  white  front  of 
which  the  street-lamp  showed  a  smartness  of 
flower-boxes.  The  child  had  been  in  thous- 
ands of  stories  —  all  Mrs.  Wix's  and  her 
own,  to  say  nothing  of  the  richest  romances 
of  French  Elise  —  but  she  had  never  been  in 
such  a  story  as  this.  By  the  time  he  had 
helped  her  out  of  the  cab,  which  drove  away, 
and  she  heard  in  the  door  of  the  house  the 
prompt  little  click  of  his  key,  the  Arabian 
Nights  had  quite  closed  round  her. 

From  this  minute  they  were  in  everything, 
particularly  in  such  an  instant  "  open  sesame  " 
and  in  the  departure  of  a  cab,  a  rattling  void 
filled  with  relinquished  step-parents ;  they 
were,  with  the  vividness,  the  almost  blinding 
whiteness  of  the  light  that  sprang  responsive 
to  papa's  quick  touch  of  a  little  brass  knob 
on  the  wall,  in  a  place  that,  at  the  top  of  a 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      225 

short  soft  staircase,  struck  her  as  the  most 
beautiful  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  The 
next  thing  she  perceived  it  to  be  was  the 
drawing-room  of  a  lady  —  oh,  of  a  lady,  she 
could  see  in  a  moment,  and  not  of  a  gentle- 
man not  even  of  one  like  papa  himself  or 
even  like  Sir  Claude  —  whose  things  were  as 
much  prettier  than  mamma's  as  it  had  always 
had  to  be  confessed  mamma's  were  prettier 
than  Mrs.  Beale's.  In  the  middle  of  the 
small  bright  room  and  the  presence  of  more 
curtains  and  cushions,  more  pictures  and 
mirrors,  more  palm-trees  drooping  over  bro- 
caded and  gilded  nooks,  more  little  silver 
boxes  scattered  over  little  crooked  tables  and 
little  oval  miniatures  hooked  upon  velvet 
screens  than  Mrs.  Beale  and  her  ladyship  to- 
gether could  in  an  unnatural  alliance  have 
dreamed  of  mustering,  the  child  became 
aware,  with  a  swift  possibility  of  compassion, 
of  something  that  was  strangely  like  a  rele- 
gation to  obscurity  of  each  of  those  women 
of  taste.  It  was  a  stranger  operation  still  that 
her  father  should  on  the  spot  be  presented  to 
her  as  quite  advantageously  and  even  grandly 
at  home  in  the  dazzling  scene  and  himself  by 
so  much  the  more  separated  from  scenes  in- 
ferior to  it.  She  spent  with  him  in  it,  while 
15 


226      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

explanations  continued  to  hang  fire,  twenty 
minutes  that,  in  their  sudden  drop  of  danger, 
affected  her,  though  there  were  neither  buns 
nor  ginger-beer,  like  an  extemporized  costly 
treat. 

"Is  she  very  rich?"  He  had  begun  to 
strike  her  as  almost  embarrassed,  so  shy  that 
he  might  have  found  himself  with  a  young 
lady  with  whom  he  had  little  in  common. 
She  was  literally  moved  by  this  apprehension 
to  offer  him  some  tactful  relief. 

Beale  Farange  stood  and  smiled  at  his 
young  lady,  his  back  to  the  fanciful  fireplace, 
his  light  overcoat  —  the  very  lightest  in  Lon- 
don—  wide  open  and  his  wonderful  lustrous 
beard  completely  concealing  the  expanse  of 
his  shirt-front.  It  pleased  her  more  than 
ever  to  think  that  papa  was  handsome  and, 
though  as  high  aloft  as  mamma  and  almost, 
in  his  specially  florid  evening  dress,  as  splen- 
did, of  a  beauty  somewhat  less  belligerent, 
less  terrible.  "The  Countess?  Why  do  you 
ask  me  that?" 

Maisie's  eyes  opened  wider.  "  Is  she  a 
Countess?" 

There  was  an  unaccustomed  geniality  in 
his  enjoyment  of  her  wonder.  "  Oh,  yes,  my 
dear  —  but  it  is  n't  an  English  title." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      227 

Maisie's  manner  appreciated  this.  "  Is  it  a 
French  one?  " 

"  No,  nor  French  either.     It's  American." 

Maisie  conversed  agreeably.  "Ah,  then, 
of  course  she  is  rich."  She  took  in  such  a 
combination  of  nationality  and  rank.  "  I 
never  saw  anything  so  lovely." 

"Did  you  have  a  sight  of  her?"  Beale 
asked. 

"At  the  Exhibition?"  Maisie  smiled. 
"  She  was  gone  too  quick." 

Her  father  laughed.  "  She  did  slope !  " 
She  was  for  a  moment  afraid  he  would 
say  something  about  Mrs.  Beale  and  Sir 
Claude :  his  unexpected  gentleness  was  too 
mystifying.  All  he  said  was,  the  next 
minute :  "  She  has  a  horror  of  vulgar 
scenes." 

This  was  something  Maisie  need  n't  take 
up;  she  could  still  continue  bland.  "But 
where  do  you  suppose  she  went?  " 

"  Oh,  I  thought  she  'd  have  taken  a  cab 
and  have  been  here  by  this  time.  But  she  '11 
turn  up  all  right." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  hope  she  will,"  Maisie  said. 
She  spoke  with  an  earnestness  begotten  of 
the  impression  of  all  the  beauty  around  her, 
to  which,  in  person,  the  Countess  might 


228      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

make  further  contributions.  "We  came 
awfully  fast,"  she  added. 

Her  father  again  laughed  loud.  "Yes, 
my  dear  —  I  made  you  step  out !  "  Beale 
hesitated ;  then  he  added :  "  I  want  her  to 
see  you."  Maisie,  at  this,  rejoiced  in  the  at- 
tention that,  for  their  evening  out,  Mrs.  Beale, 
even  to  the  extent  of  personally  "  doing  up  " 
her  old  hat,  had  given  her  appearance. 
Meanwhile  her  father  went  on :  "  You  '11  like 
her  awfully." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure  I  shall !  "  -—  after  which, 
either  from  the  effect  of  having  said  so  much 
or  from  that  of  a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  im- 
possibility of  saying  more,  she  felt  a  com- 
plication and  sought  refuge  in  a  minor 
branch  of  the  subject.  "  I  thought  she  was 
Mrs.  Cuddon." 

Beale's  gaiety  rather  increased  than  dimin- 
ished. "  You  mean  my  wife  did  ?  My  dear 
child,  my  wife 's  a  damned  fool."  He  had 
the  oddest  air  of  speaking  of  his  wife  as  of  a 
person  whom  she  might  scarcely  have  known ; 
so  that  the  refuge  of  her  scruple  did  n't  prove 
particularly  happy.  Beale,  on  the  other 
hand,  appeared  after  an  instant  himself  to 
feel  a  scruple.  "  What  I  mean  is,  to  speak 
seriously,  that  she  does  n't  really  know  any- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      229 

thing  about  anything."  He  paused,  follow- 
ing the  child's  charmed  eyes  and  tentative 
step  or  two  as  they  brought  her  nearer  to  the 
pretty  things  on  one  of  the  tables.  "  She 
thinks  she  has  good  things,  don't  you  know  ?  " 
He  quite  jeered  at  Mrs.  Beale's  delusion. 

Maisie  felt  she  must  confess  that  it  was 
one :  everything  she  had  missed  at  the  side- 
shows was  made  up  to  her  by  the  Countess's 
luxuries.  "  Yes,"  she  considered  —  "  she  does 
think  that." 

There  was  again  a  dryness  in  the  way 
Beale  replied  that  it  didn't  matter  what  she 
thought ;  but  there  was  an  increasing  sweet- 
ness for  his  daughter  in  being  with  him  so 
long  without  his  doing  anything  worse.  The 
whole  hour,  of  course,  was  to  remain  with 
her  for  days  and  weeks,  ineffaceably  illu- 
mined and  confirmed ;  by  the  end  of  which 
she  was  able  to  read  into  it  a  hundred  things 
that  were  at  the  moment  mere  miraculous 
pleasantness.  What  they  then  and  there 
came  to  was  simply  that  her  companion  was 
still  excited,  yet  wished  not  to  show  it,  and 
that  just  in  proportion  as  he  succeeded  in 
this  attempt  he  was  able  to  encourage  her  to 
regard  him  as  kind.  He  moved  about  the 
room  after  a  little ;  showed  her  things,  spoke 


230      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

to  her  as  a  person  of  taste,  told  her  the  name, 
which  she  remembered,  of  the  famous  French 
lady  represented  in  one  of  the  miniatures, 
and  remarked,  as  if  he  had  caught  her  wistful 
over  a  trinket  or  a  trailing  stuff,  that  he  made 
no  doubt  the  Countess,  on  coming  in,  would 
give  her  something  jolly.  He  spied  a  pink 
satin  box  with  a  looking-glass  let  into  the 
cover,  which  he  raised,  with  a  quick,  facetious 
flourish,  to  offer  her  the  privilege  of  six  rows 
deep  of  chocolate  bonbons,  cutting  out  thereby 
Sir  Claude,  who  had  never  gone  beyond  two 
rows.  "I  can  do  what  I  like  with  these," 
he  said,  "for  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  gave 
'em  to  her  myself."  The  Countess  had  evi- 
dently appreciated  the  gift ;  there  were  nu- 
merous gaps,  a  ravage  now  quite  unchecked,  in 
the  array.  Even  while  they  waited  together 
Maisie  had  her  sense,  which  was  the  mark 
of  what  their  separation  had  become,  of  her 
having  grown,  for  him,  since  the  last  time 
he  had,  as  it  were,  noticed  her,  and  by  in- 
crease of  years  and  of  inches  if  by  nothing 
else,  much  more  of  a  little  person  to  reckon 
with.  Yes,  that  was  a  part  of  the  positive 
awkwardness  that  he  carried  off  by  being 
almost  foolishly  tender.  There  was  a  passage 
during  which,  on  a  yellow  silk  sofa,  under 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW       231 

one  of  the  palms,  he  had  her  on  his  knee, 
stroking  her  hair,  playfully  holding  her  off 
while  he  showed  his  shining  fangs  and  let 
her,  with  a  vague,  affectionate,  helpless, 
pointless  "Dear  old  girl,  dear  little  daugh- 
ter!" inhale  the  fragrance  of  his  cherished 
beard.  She  must  have  been  sorry  for  him, 
she  afterwards  knew ;  so  well  could  she  pri- 
vately follow  his  difficulty  in  being  specific 
to  her  about  anything.  She  had  such  pos- 
sibilities of  vibration,  of  response,  that  it 
needed  nothing  more  than  this  to  make  up 
to  her  in  fact  for  omissions.  The  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  again  as  they  had  come  when, 
in  the  Park  that  day,  the  Captain  told  her  so 
excitingly  that  her  mother  was  good.  What 
was  this  but  exciting  too,  this  still  directer 
goodness  of  her  father  and  this  unexampled 
shining  solitude  with  him,  out  of  which 
everything  had  dropped  but  that  he  was  papa 
and  that  he  was  magnificent?  It  didn't 
spoil  it  that  she  finally  felt  he  must  have,  as 
he  became  restless,  some  purpose  he  did  n't 
quite  see  his  way  to  bring  out ;  for  in  the 
freshness  of  their  recovered  fellowship  she 
would  have  lent  herself  gleefully  to  his  sug- 
gesting, or  even  to  his  pretending,  that  their 
relations  were  easy  and  graceful.  There  was 


232      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

something  in  him  that  seemed  —  and  quite 
touchingly — -to  ask  her  to  help  him  to  pre- 
tend, pretend  he  knew  enough  about  her  life 
and  her  education,  her  means  of  subsistence 
and  her  view  of  himself,  to  give  the  ques- 
tions he  couldn't  put  her  a  natural  domestic 
tone.  She  would  have  pretended  with  ecstasy 
if  he  could  only  have  given  her  the  cue.  She 
waited  for  it  while,  between  his  big  teeth, 
he  breathed  the  sighs  she  did  n't  know  to  be 
stupid;  and  as  if  he  had  drawn  —  rather  red 
with  the  confusion  of  it  —  the  pledge  of  her 
preparation  from  her  tears,  he  floundered 
about,  wondering  what  the  devil  he  could  lay 
hold  of. 


XIX 

WHEN  he  had  lighted  a  cigarette  and  begun 
to  smoke  in  her  face  it  was  as  if  he  had 
struck  with  the  match  the  note  of  some  queer, 
clumsy  ferment  of  old  professions,  old  scan- 
dals, old  duties,  a  dim  perception  of  what  he 
possessed  in  her  and  what,  if  everything  had 
only,  damn  it,  been  totally  different,  she 
might  still  be  able  to  give  him.  What  she 
was  able  to  give  him,  however,  as  his  blink- 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      233 

ing  eyes  seemed  to  make  out  through  the 
smoke,  would  be  simply  what  he  should  be 
able  to  get  from  her.  To  give  something,  to 
give  here  on  the  spot,  was  all  her  own  desire. 
Among  the  old  things  that  came  back  was 
her  little  instinct  of  keeping  the  peace;  it 
made  her  wonder  more  sharply  what  particu- 
lar thing  she  could  do  or  not  do,  what  partic- 
ular word  she  could  speak  or  not  speak,  what 
particular  line  she  could  take  or  not  take  that 
might,  for  every  one,  even  for  the  Countess, 
give  a  better  turn  to  the  crisis.  She  was 
ready,  in  this  interest,  for  an  immense  sur- 
render, a  surrender  of  everything  but  Sir 
Claude,  of  everything  but  Mrs.  Beale.  The 
immensity  didn't  include  them;  but  if  he 
had  an  idea  at  the  back  of  his  head  she  had 
also  one  in  a  recess  as  deep,  and  for  a  time, 
while  they  sat  together,  there  was  an  extraor- 
dinary mute  passage  between  her  vision  of 
this  vision  of  his,  his  vision  of  her  vision  and 
her  vision  of  his  vision  of  her  vision.  What 
there  was  no  effective  record  of  indeed  was 
the  small  strange  pathos  on  the  child's  part 
of  an  innocence  so  saturated  with  knowledge 
and  so  directed  to  diplomacy.  What,  fur- 
ther, Beale  finally  laid  hold  of  while  he 
masked  again  with  his  fine  presence  half  the 


234      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

flounces  of  the  fireplace  was  :  "  Do  you  know, 
my  dear,  I  shall  soon  be  off  to  America? " 

It  struck  his  daughter  both  as  a  short  cut 
and  as  the  way  he  would  n't  have  said  it  to 
his  wife.  But  his  wife  figured  with  a  bright 
superficial  assurance  in  her  response.  "  Do 
you  mean  with  Mrs.  Beale  ?  " 

Her  father  looked  at  her  hard.  "Don't 
be  a  little  ass!" 

Her  silence  appeared  to  represent  a  con- 
centrated effort  not  to  be.  "  Then  with  the 
Countess?" 

"With  her  or  without  her,  my  dear  —  that 
concerns  only  your  poor  daddy.  She  has  big 
interests  over  there,  and  she  wants  me  to 
take  a  look  at  them." 

Maisie  threw  herself  into  them.  "Will 
that  take  very  long  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  they  're  in  such  a  muddle  —  it  may 
take  months.  Now  what  I  want  to  hear,  you 
know,  is  whether  you  would  like  to  come 
along." 

Planted  once  more  before  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  she  felt  herself  turning 
white.  "  I  ?  "  she  gasped,  yet  feeling  as 
soon  as  she  had  spoken  that  such  a  note  of 
dismay  was  not  altogether  pretty.  She  felt 
it  still  more  while  her  father  replied,  with  a 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      235 

shake  of  his  legs,  a  toss  of  his  cigarette-ash 
and  a  fidgety  look  —  he  was  forever  taking 
one  —  all  the  length  of  his  waistcoat  and 
trousers,  that  she  need  n't  be  quite  so  dis- 
gusted. It  helped  her  in  a  few  seconds  to 
appear  more  as  he  would  like  her  that  she 
saw,  in  the  lovely  light  of  the  Countess's 
splendor,  exactly,  however  she  appeared,  the 
right  answer  to  make.  "  Dear  papa,  I  '11  go 
with  you  anywhere." 

He  turned  his  back  to  her  and  stood  with 
his  nose  at  the  glass  of  the  chimneypiece  while 
he  brushed  specks  of  ash  out  of  his  beard. 
Then  he  abruptly  said :  "  Do  you  know  any- 
thing about  your  brute  of  a  mother?  " 

It  was  just  of  her  brute  of  a  mother  that 
the  manner  of  the  question  in  a  remarkable 
degree  reminded  her:  it  had  the  free  flight 
of  one  of  Ida's  fine  bridgings  of  space.  With 
the  sense  of  this  was  kindled  for  Maisie  at 
the  same  time  an  inspiration.  "  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  everything !  "  —  and  she  became  so 
radiant  that  her  father,  seeing  it  in  the 
mirror,  turned  back  to  her  and  presently,  on 
the  sofa,  had  her  on  his  knee  again  and  was 
again  particularly  stirring.  Maisie' s  inspi- 
ration was  to  the  effect  that  the  more  she 
should  be  able  to  say  about  mamma  the  less 


236      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

she  would  be  called  upon  to  speak  of  her  step- 
parents. She  kept  hoping  that  the  Countess 
would  come  in  before  her  power  to  protect 
them  was  exhausted;  and  it  was  now,  in 
closer  quarters  with  her  companion,  that  the 
idea  at  the  back  of  her  head  shifted  its  place 
to  her  lips.  She  told  him  she  had  met  her 
mother  in  the  park  with  a  gentleman  who, 
while  Sir  Claude  had  strolled  with  her  lady- 
ship, had  been  kind  and  had  sat  and  talked 
to  her;  narrating  the  scene  with  a  remem- 
brance of  her  pledge  of  secrecy  to  the  Captain 
quite  brushed  away  by  the  joy  of  seeing 
Beale  listen  without  profane  interposition. 
It  was  almost  an  amazement,  but  indeed  all 
a  joy,  thus  to  be  able  to  guess  that  papa  was 
at  last  quite  tired  of  his  anger  —  of  his  anger, 
at  any  rate,  about  mamma.  He  was  only 
bored  with  her  now.  That  made  it,  however, 
the  more  imperative  that  his  spent  dis- 
pleasure should  n't  be  blown  out  again.  It 
charmed  the  child  to  see  how  much  she  could 
interest  him,  and  the  charm  remained  even 
when,  after  asking  her  a  dozen  questions,  he 
observed,  musingly  and  a  little  obscurely, 
"  Yes  —  damned  if  she  won't ! "  For  in  this 
too  there  was  a  detachment,  a  wise  weari- 
ness that  made  her  feel  safe.  She  had  had  to 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      237 

mention  Sir  Claude,  though  she  mentioned 
him  as  little  as  possible  and  Beale  only  ap- 
peared to  look  quite  over  his  head.  It  pieced 
itself  together  for  her  that  this  was  the  mild- 
ness of  general  indifference;  a  source  of 
profit  so  great  for  herself  personally  that  if 
the  Countess  was  the  author  of  it  she  was 
prepared  literally  to  hug  the  Countess.  She 
betrayed  that  eagerness  by  a  restless  question 
about  her;  to  which  her  father  replied  :  "Oh, 
she  has  a  head  on  her  shoulders  —  I  '11  back 
her  to  get  out  of  anything ! "  He  looked  at 
Maisie  quite  as  if  he  would  trace  the  connec- 
tion between  her  inquiry  and  the  impatience 
of  her  gratitude.  "Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he 
presently  went  on,  "that  you  'd  really  come 
with  me  ? " 

She  felt  as  if  he  were  now  looking  at  her 
very  hard  indeed,  and  also  as  if  she  had 
grown  ever  so  much  older.  "  I  '11  do  anything 
in  the  world  you  ask  me,  papa." 

He  gave  again,  with  a  laugh  and  with  his 
legs  apart,  his  proprietary  glance  at  his  waist- 
coat and  trousers.  "  That 's  a  way,  my  dear, 
of  saying  'No,  thank  you!'  You  know  you 
don't  want  to  go  the  least  little  mite.  You 
can't  humbug  me  !  "  Mr.  Farange  laid  down. 
"  I  don't  want  to  bully  you  —  I  never  bullied 


238      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

you  in  my  life;  but  I  make  you  the  offer, 
and  it 's  to  take  or  to  leave.  Your  mother 
will  never  again  have  any  more  to  do  with 
you  than  if  you  were  a  kitchen-maid  she  had 
turned  out  for  going  wrong.  Therefore,  of 
course,  I  'm  your  natural  protector,  and 
you  've  a  right  to  get  everything  out  of  me 
you  can.  Now  's  your  chance,  you  know  — 
you  '11  be  a  great  fool  if  you  don't.  You 
can't  say  I  don't  put  it  before  you  —  you 
can't  say  I  ain't  kind  to  you  or  that  I  don't 
play  fair.  Mind  you  never  say  that,  you 
know  —  it  would  bring  me  down  on  you.  I 
know  what 's  proper  —  I  '11  take  you  again, 
just  as  I  have  taken  you  again  and  again  and 
again.  And  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for 
making  up  such  a  face. " 

She  was  conscious  enough  that  her  face 
indeed  couldn't  please  him  if  it  showed  any 
sign  —  just  as  she  hoped  it  did  n't  —  of  her 
sharp  impression  of  what  he  now  really 
wanted  to  do.  Was  n't  he  trying  to  turn  the 
tables  on  her,  hocuspocus  her  somehow  into 
admitting  that  what  would  really  suit  her 
little  book  would  be,  after  doing  so  much  for 
good  manners,  to  leave  her  wholly  at  liberty 
to  arrange  for  herself  ?  She  began  to  be  ner- 
vous again ;  it  rolled  over  her  that  this  was 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      239 

their  parting,  their  parting  forever,  and  that 
he  had  brought  her  there  for  so  many  caresses 
only  because  it  was  important  such  an  occa- 
sion should  look  better  for  him  than  any 
other.  For  her  to  spoil  it  by  the  note  of  dis- 
cord would  certainly  give  him  ground  for 
complaint;  and  the  child  was  momentarily 
bewildered  between  her  alternatives  of  agree- 
ing with  him  about  her  wanting  to  get  rid  of 
him  and  displeasing  him  by  pretending  to 
stick  to  him.  So  she  found  for  the  moment 
no  solution  but  to  murmur  very  helplessly: 
"Oh,  papa  —  oh,  papa!" 

"I  know  what  you're  up  to  —  don't  tell 
me  !  "  After  which  he  came  straight  over 
and,  in  the  most  inconsequent  way  in  the 
world,  clasped  her  in  his  arms  a  moment  and 
rubbed  his  beard  against  her  cheek.  Then 
she  understood  as  well  as  if  he  had  spoken 
it  that  what  he  wanted,  hang  it,  was  that 
she  should  let  him  off  with  all  the  honours 
—  with  all  the  appearance  of  virtue  and  sac- 
rifice on  his  side.  It  was  exactly  as  if  he 
had  broken  out  to  her:  "I  say,  you  little 
donkey,  help  me  to  be  irreproachable,  to  be 
noble,  and  yet  to  have  none  of  the  beastly 
bore  of  it.  There  's  only  impropriety  enough 
for  one  of  us,  so  you  must  take  it  all.  Repu- 


24o      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

diate  your  dear  old  daddy  —  in  the  face,  mind 
you,  of  his  tender  supplications.  He  can't 
be  rough  with  you  —  it  is  n't  in  his  nature; 
therefore  you  will  have  successfully  chucked 
him  because  he  was  too  generous  to  be  as 
firm  with  you,  poor  man,  as  was,  after  all, 
his  duty."  This  was  what  he  communicated 
in  a  series  of  tremendous  pats  on  the  back; 
that  portion  of  her  person  had  never  been  so 
thumped  since  Moddle  thumped  her  when 
she  choked.  After  a  moment  he  gave  her  the 
further  impression  of  having  become  sure 
enough  of  her  to  be  able  very  gracefully  to 
say  out:  "You  know  your  mother  loathes 
you,  loathes  you  simply.  And  I  've  been 
thinking  over  your  man  —  the  fellow  you  told 
me  about." 

"Well,"  Maisie  replied  with  competence, 
"I  'm  sure  of  him." 

Her  father  was  vague  an  instant.  "  Do 
you  mean  sure  of  his  liking  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  of  his  liking  her  !  " 

Beale  had  a  return  of  gaiety.  "There's 
no  accounting  for  tastes !  It 's  what  they  all 
say,  you  know. " 

"  I  don't  care  —  I'm  sure  of  him  ! "  Maisie 
repeated. 

"Sure,  you  mean,  that  she  '11  bolt?" 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      241 

Maisie  knew  all  about  bolting,  but,  decid- 
edly, she  was  older,  and  there  was  something 
in  her  that  could  wince  at  the  way  her  father 
made  the  word  boom  out.  It  prompted  her 
to  amend  his  allusion;  which  she  did  by  re- 
turning :  "  I  don't  know  what  she  '  11  do.  But 
she  '11  be  happy." 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  said  Beale  with  bright, 
unusual  mildness.  "  The  more  happy  she  is, 
at  any  rate,  the  less  she'll  want  you  about. 
That's  why  I  press  you,"  he  agreeably  pur- 
sued, "to  consider  this  handsome  offer  —  I 
mean  seriously,  you  know  —  of  your  sole  sur- 
viving parent."  Their  eyes,  at  this,  met 
again  in  a  long  and  extraordinary  communion 
which  terminated  in  his  ejaculating:  "Ah, 
you  little  scoundrel !  "  She  took  it  from  him 
in  the  manner  that  it  seemed  to  her  he  would 
prefer  and  with  a  success  that  encouraged 
him  to  go  on :  "  You  are  a  deep  little  devil !  " 
Her  silence,  ticking  like  a  watch,  acknowl- 
edged even  this ;  in  confirmation  of  which  he 
finally  brought  out :  "  You  've  settled  it  with 
the  other  pair !  " 

"  Well,  what  if  I  have  ?  "  —  she  sounded  to 
herself  most  bold. 

Her  father,  quite  as  in  the  old  days,  guf- 
fawed. "Why,  don't  you  know  they 're  awful?" 
16 


242      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

She  grew  bolder  still.  "I  don't  care  — 
not  a  bit ! " 

"  But  they  're  probably  the  worst  people  in 
the  world  and  the  very  greatest  criminals," 
Beale  pleasantly  urged.  "  I  'm  not  the  man, 
my  dear,  not  to  let  you  know  it. " 

"Well,  it  doesn't  prevent  them  from  lov- 
ing me.  They  love  me  tremendously." 
Maisie  turned  crimson  to  hear  herself. 

Her  father  hesitated:  almost  any  one  — 
let  alone  a  daughter  —  would  have  seen  how 
conscientious  he  wanted  to  be.  "  I  dare  say. 
But  do  you  know  why?"  She  braved  his 
eyes,  and  he  added:  "You're  a  jolly  good 
pretext." 

"  For  what  ?  "  Maisie  asked. 

"  Why,  for  their  game.  I  need  n't  tell  you 
what  that  is. " 

The  child  reflected.  "Well,  then,  that's 
all  the  more  reason." 

"  Reason  for  what,  pray?  " 

"For  their  being  kind  to  me." 

"  And  for  your  keeping  in  with  them  ? " 
Beale  roared  again ;  it  was  as  if  his  spirits 
rose  and  rose.  "  Do  you  realize,  I  should 
like  to  know,  that  in  saying  that  you  're  a 
monster  ? " 

Maisie  turned  it  over.     "A  monster?" 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      243 

"They've  made  one  of  you.  Upon  my 
honour  it  's  quite  awful.  It  shows  the  sort 
of  people  they  are.  Don't  you  understand," 
Beale  pursued,  "  that  when  they  've  made  you 
as  horrid  as  they  can  —  as  horrid  as  them- 
selves —  they  '11  just  simply  chuck  you?  " 

Maisie,  at  this,  had  a  flicker  of  passion. 
"  They  won't  chuck  me !  " 

"Excuse  me,"  her  father  courteously  in- 
sisted. "  It 's  my  duty  to  put  it  before  you. 
I  should  n't  forgive  myself  if  I  did  n't  point 
out  to  you  that  they  '11  cease  to  require  you. " 
He  spoke  as  if  with  an  appeal  to  her  intelli- 
gence that  she  must  be  ashamed  not  ade- 
quately to  meet,  and  this  gave  a  still  higher 
grace  to  his  superior  delicacy. 

It  had  after  an  instant  the  illuminating 
effect  he  intended.  "Cease  to  require  me 
because  they  won't  care — ?"  She  paused 
with  that  sketch  of  her  idea. 

"  Of  course  Sir  Claude  won't  care  if  his 
wife  bolts.  That 's  his  game  —  it  will  suit 
him  down  to  the  ground." 

This  was  a  proposition  Maisie  could  per- 
fectly embrace,  but  it  still  left  a  loophole  for 
triumph.  She  considered  a  little.  "  You 
mean  if  mamma  does  n't  come  back  ever  at 
all  ?  "  The  composure  with  which  her  face 


244      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

was  presented  to  that  prospect  would  have 
shown  a  spectator  the  long  road  she  had  trav- 
elled. "Well,  but  that  won't  put  Mrs. 
Beale  —  " 

"In  the  same  comfortable  position  —  ?" 
Beale  took  her  up  with  relish ;  he  had  sprung 
to  his  feet  again,  shaking  his  legs  and  look- 
ing at  his  shoes.  "  Right  you  are,  darling ! 
Something  more  will  be  wanted  for  Mrs. 
Beale. "  He  hesitated ;  then  he  added :  "  But 
she  may  not  have  long  to  wait  for  it. " 

Maisie  also  for  a  minute  looked  at  his 
shoes,  though  they  were  not  the  pair  she  most 
admired,  the  laced  yellow  "uppers"  and 
patent-leather  complement.  At  last,  with  a 
question,  she  raised  her  eyes.  "  Are  you  not 
coming  back? " 

Once  more  he  hung  fire;  after  which  he 
gave  a  small  laugh  that,  in  the  oddest  way  in 
the  world,  reminded  her  of  the  unique  sounds 
she  had  heard  emitted  by  Mrs.  Wix.  "It 
may  strike  you  as  extraordinary  that  I  should 
make  you  such  an  admission;  and  in  point 
of  fact  you  're  not  to  understand  that  I  do. 
But  we  '11  put  it  that  way  to  help  your  de- 
cision. The  point  is  that  that 's  the  way  my 
wife  will  presently  be  sure  to  put  it.  You  '11 
hear  her  shrieking  that  she  's  deserted,  so 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      245 

that  she  may  pile  up  her  wrongs  and  things. 
She  '11  be  as  free  as  she  likes  then  —  as  free, 
you  see,  as  your  mother's  ass  of  a  husband. 
They  won't  have  anything  more  to  consider, 
and  they  '11  just  put  you  into  the  street.  Do 
I  understand,"  Beale  inquired,  "that,  in  the 
face  of  what  I  press  upon  you,  you  still  pre- 
fer to  take  the  risk  of  that?"  It  was  the 
most  wonderful  appeal  any  gentleman  had 
ever  addressed  to  his  daughter,  and  it  had 
placed  Maisie  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
again,  while  her  father  moved  slowly  about 
her  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  some- 
thing in  his  step  that  seemed,  more  than  any- 
thing else  he  had  done,  to  show  the  habit  of 
the  place.  She  turned  her  fevered  little 
eyes  over  his  friend's  brightnesses,  as  if,  on 
her  own  side,  to  press  for  some  help  in  a 
quandary  unexampled.  As  if,  also,  the 
pressure  reached  him,  he  after  an  instant 
stopped  short,  completing  the  prodigy  of  his 
attitude  and  the  grace  of  his  loyalty  by  a 
supreme  formulation  of  the  general  induce- 
ment. "  You  have  an  eye,  love !  Yes  — 
there  's  money.  No  end  of  money." 

This  affected  her  for  a  moment  like  some 
great  flashing  dazzle  in  one  of  the  panto- 
mimes to  which  Sir  Claude  had  taken  her : 


246      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

she  saw  nothing  in  it  but  what  it  directly 
conveyed.  "And  shall  I  never,  never  see 
you  again  — ?  " 

"  If  I  do  go  to  America  ?  "  Beale  brought 
it  out  like  a  man.  "Never,  never,  never!" 

Hereupon,  with  the  utmost  absurdity,  she 
broke  down;  everything  gave  way,  every- 
thing but  the  horror  of  hearing  herself  defi- 
nitely utter  such  an  ugliness  as  the  accept- 
ance of  that.  So  she  only  stiffened  herself 
and  said:  "Then  I  can't  give  you  up." 

She  held  him  some  seconds  looking  at  her, 
showing  her  a  strained  grimace,  a  perfect 
parade  of  all  his  teeth,  in  which  it  seemed 
to  her  she  could  read  the  disgust  he  did  n't 
quite  like  to  express  at  this  departure  from 
the  pliability  she  had  practically  promised. 
But  before  she  could  attenuate  in  any  way 
the  crudity  of  her  collapse  he  gave  an  impa- 
tient jerk  which  took  him  to  the  window. 
She  heard  a  vehicle  stop ;  Beale  looked  out ; 
then  he  freshly  faced  her.  He  still  said 
nothing,  but  she  knew  the  Countess  had  come 
back.  There  was  a  silence  again  between 
them,  but  with  a  different  shade  of  embar- 
rassment from  that  of  their  united  arrival; 
and  it  was  still  without  speaking  that, 
abruptly  repeating  one  of  the  fine  hugs  of 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      247 

which  he  had  already  been  so  liberal,  he 
whisked  her  back  to  the  yellow  sofa  just  be- 
fore the  door  of  the  room  was  thrown  open. 
It  was  thus  in  renewed  and  intimate  union 
with  him  that  she  was  presented  to  a  person 
whom  she  instantly  recognized  as  the  brown 
lady. 

The  brown  lady  looked  almost  as  aston- 
ished, though  not  quite  as  alarmed,  as  when, 
at  the  Exhibition,  she  had  gasped  in  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Beale.  Maisie,  in  truth,  almost 
gasped  in  her  own ;  this  was  with  the  fuller 
perception  that  she  was  brown  indeed.  She 
literally  struck  the  child  more  as  an  animal 
than  as  a  "real "  lady:  she  might  have  been 
a  clever  frizzled  poodle  in  a  frill  or  a  dread- 
ful human  monkey  in  a  spangled  petticoat. 
She  had  a  nose  that  was  far  too  big  and  eyes 
that  were  far  too  small  and  a  moustache  that 
was  —  well,  not  so  happy  a  feature  as  Sir 
Claude's.  Beale  jumped  up  to  her;  while, 
to  the  child's  astonishment,  though  as  if  in 
a  quick  intensity  of  thought,  the  Countess 
advanced  as  gaily  as  if,  for  many  a  day,  noth- 
ing awkward  had  happened  for  any  one. 
Maisie,  in  spite  of  a  large  acquaintance  with 
the  phenomenon,  had  never  seen  it  so  promptly 
established  that  nothing  awkward  was  to  be 


248      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

mentioned.  The  next  minute  the  Countess 
had  kissed  her  and  exclaimed  to  Beale  with 
bright,  tender  reproach :  "  Why,  you  never 
told  me  half!  My  dear  child,"  she  cried, 
"  it  was  awfully  nice  of  you  to  come !  " 

"  But  she  has  n't  come  —  she  won  t  come !  " 
Beale  exclaimed.  "  I  've  put  it  to  her  how 
much  you  'd  like  it,  but  she  declines  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  us." 

The  Countess  stood  smiling,  and  after  an 
instant  that  was  mainly  taken  up  with  the 
shock  of  her  weird  aspect  Maisie  felt  herself 
reminded  of  another  smile,  which  was  not 
ugly,  though  also  interested  —  the  kind  light 
thrown,  that  day  in  the  Park,  from  the  clean, 
fair  face  of  the  Captain.  Papa's  Captain  — 
yes  —  was  the  Countess;  but  she  wasn't 
nearly  so  nice  as  the  other:  it  all  came  back, 
doubtless,  to  Maisie' s  minor  appreciation  of 
ladies.  "Should  n't  you  like  me,"  said  this 
one  endearingly,  "  to  take  you  to  Spa  ?  " 

"To  Spa?"  The  child  repeated  the  name 
to  gain  time,  not  to  show  how  the  Countess 
brought  back  to  her  a  dim  remembrance  of  a 
strange  woman  with  a  horrid  face,  who  once, 
years  before,  in  an  omnibus,  bending  to  her 
from  an  opposite  seat,  had  suddenly  produced 
an  orange  and  murmured :  "  Little  dearie, 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      249 

won't  you  have  it?  "  She  had  felt  then,  for 
some  reason,  a  small,  silly  terror,  though 
afterwards  conscious  that  her  interlocutress, 
unfortunately  hideous,  had  particularly  meant 
to  be  kind.  This  was  also  what  the  Coun- 
tess meant;  yet  the  few  words  she  had 
uttered  and  the  smile  with  which  she  had 
uttered  them  immediately  cleared  everything 
up.  Oh,  no,  she  wanted  to  go  nowhere  with 
her,  for  her  presence  had  already,  in  a  few 
seconds,  dissipated  the  happy  impression  of 
the  room  and  put  an  end  to  the  pride  momen- 
tarily suggested  by  Beale's  association  with 
so  much  taste.  There  was  no  taste  in  his 
association  with  the  short,  fat,  wheedling, 
whiskered  person  who  had  approached  her 
and  in  whom  she  had  to  recognize  the  only 
figure  wholly  without  attraction  that  had  be- 
come a  party  to  an  intimate  connection 
formed  in  her  immediate  circle.  She  was 
abashed  meanwhile,  however,  at  having  ap- 
peared to  weigh  the  place  to  which  she  had 
been  invited;  and  she  added  as  quickly  as 
possible:  "It  isn't  to  America,  then  —  ?" 
The  Countess,  at  this,  looked  sharply  at 
Beale,  and  Beale,  airily  enough,  asked  what 
the  deuce  it  mattered  when  she  had  already 
given  him  to  understand  that  she  wanted  to 


250      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  There  fol- 
lowed between  her  companions  a  passage  of 
which  the  sense  was  drowned  for  her  in  the 
deepening  inward  hum  of  her  mere  desire  to 
get  off;  though  she  was  able  to  guess  later 
on  that  her  father  must  have  put  it  to  his 
friend  that  it  was  no  use  talking,  that  she 
was  an  obstinate  little  pig  and  that,  besides, 
she  was  really  old  enough  to  choose  for  her- 
self. It  glimmered  back  to  her  then  as  well 
that  the  Countess  had  cast  derision  on  the 
question  of  America  and  had  offered  her 
alternatives  to  Spa  in  the  shape  of  any  place 
she  should  like  to  go  in  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  It  glimmered  back  to  her  indeed  that 
she  must  have  failed  quite  dreadfully  to  seem 
responsive  and  polite,  inasmuch  as,  before 
she  knew  it,  she  had  visibly  given  the  im- 
pression that  if  they  did  n't  allow  her  to  go 
home  she  should  cry.  Oh,  if  there  had  ever 
been  a  thing  to  cry  about,  it  was  being  found 
in  that  punishable  little  attitude  toward  the 
handsomest  offers  one  had  ever  received ! 
The  great  pain  of  the  thing  was  that  she 
could  see  the  Countess  liked  her  enough  to 
wish  to  be  liked  in  return ;  and  it  was  from  the 
idea  of  a  return  she  sought  to  flee  —  it  was 
the  idea  of  a  return  that,  after  a  confusion  of 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       251 

loud  words  had  arisen  between  the  others, 
brought  to  her  lips  with  the  tremor  preced- 
ing disaster:  "Can't  I,  please,  be  sent  home 
in  a  cab  ? "  Yes,  the  Countess  wanted  her 
and  the  Countess  was  wounded  and  chilled, 
and  she  could  n't  help  it,  and  it  was  all  the 
more  dreadful  because  it  only  made  the  Coun- 
tess more  seductive  and  more  impossible. 
The  only  thing  that  sustained  either  of  them 
perhaps  till  the  cab  came  —  Maisie  presently 
saw  it  would  come  —  was  its  being  in  the 
air  somehow  that  Beale  had  done  what  he 
wanted.  He  went  out  to  look  for  a  convey- 
ance ;  the  servants,  he  said,  had  gone  to  bed, 
but  she  should  n't  be  kept  beyond  her  time. 
The  Countess  left  the  room  with  him  and 
alone  in  possession  of  it  Maisie  hoped  she 
would  n't  come  back.  It  was  all  the  effect 
of  her  face  —  the  child  simply  couldn't  look 
at  it  and  meet  its  expression  half-way.  All 
in  a  moment  too  that  queer  expression  had 
leaped  into  the  lovely  things  —  all  in  a 
moment  she  had  had  to  accept  her  father  as 
liking  some  one  whom,  she  was  sure,  neither 
her  mother,  nor  Mrs.  Beale,  nor  Mrs.  Wix, 
nor  Sir  Claude,  nor  the  Captain,  nor  even 
Mr.  Perriam  nor  Lord  Eric,  could  possibly 
have  liked.  Three  minutes  later,  down- 


252      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

stairs,  with  the  cab  at  the  door,  it  was  per- 
haps as  a  final  confession  of  not  having  much 
to  boast  of  that,  on  taking  leave  of  her,  he 
managed  to  press  her  to  his  bosom  without 
her  seeing  his  face.  For  herself,  she  was  so 
eager  to  go  that  their  parting  reminded  her 
of  nothing  —  not  even  of  a  single  one  of  all 
the  "nevers"  that,  above,  as  the  penalty  of 
not  cleaving  to  him,  he  had  attached  to  the 
question  of  their  meeting  again.  There  was 
something  in  the  Countess  that  falsified 
everything,  even  the  great  interests  in 
America,  and  yet  more  the  first  flush  of  that 
superiority  to  Mrs.  Beale  and  to  mamma 
which  had  been  expressed  in  silver  boxes. 
These  were  still  there,  but  perhaps  there 
were  no  great  interests  in  America.  Mamma 
had  known  an  American  who  was  not  a  bit 
like  this  one.  She  was  not,  however,  of 
noble  rank;  her  name  was  only  Mrs.  Tucker. 
Maisie's  detachment  would,  all  the  same, 
have  been  more  complete  if  she  had  not  sud- 
denly had  to  exclaim  :  "  Oh,  dear  —  I  have  n't 
any  money ! " 

Her  father's  teeth,  at  this,  were  such  a  pic- 
ture of  appetite  without  action  as  to  be  a 
match  for  any  plea  of  poverty.  "  Make  your 
stepmother  pay." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      253 

"  Stepmothers  don't  pay ! "  cried  the  Coun- 
tess. "  No  stepmother  ever  paid  in  her  life  ! " 
The  next  moment  they  were  in  the  street 
together,  and  the  next  the  child  was  in  the 
cab,  with  the  Countess  on  the  pavement,  but 
close  to  her,  quickly  taking  money  from  a 
purse  whisked  out  of  a  pocket.  Her  father 
had  vanished,  and  there  was  even  yet  noth- 
ing in  that  to  reawaken  the  pang  of  loss. 
"  Here  's  money,"  said  the  brown  lady :  "go ! " 
The  sound  was  commanding;  the  cab  rattled 
off;  Maisie  sat  there  with  her  hand  full  of 
coin.  All  that  for  a  cab  ?  —  as  they  passed  a 
street-lamp  she  bent  to  see  how  much. 
What  she  saw  was  a  cluster  of  sovereigns. 
There  must,  then,  have  been  great  interests 
in  America.  It  was  still,  at  any  rate,  the 
Arabian  Nights. 


XX 

THE  money  was  far  too  much  even  for  a 
fee  in  a  fairy-tale,  and  in  the  absence  of 
Mrs.  Beale,  who,  though  the  hour  was  now 
late,  had  not  yet  returned  to  the  Regent's 
Park,  Susan  Ash,  in  the  hall,  as  loud  as 
Maisie  was  low  and  as  bold  as  she  was  bland, 


254     WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

produced,  on  the  exhibition  offered  under 
the  dim  vigil  of  the  lamp  that  made  the 
place  a  contrast  to  the  child's  recent  scene 
of  light,  the  half-crown  that  an  unsophisti- 
cated cabman  could  pronounce  to  be  the 
least  he  would  take.  It  was  apparently  long 
before  Mrs.  Beale  would  arrive,  and  in  the 
interval  Maisie  had  been  induced  by  the 
prompt  Susan  not  only  to  go  to  bed  like  a 
darling  dear,  but,  in  still  richer  expression 
of  that  character,  to  devote  to  the  repay- 
ment of  obligations  general  as  well  as  partic- 
ular one  of  the  sovereigns  in  the  fanciful 
figure  that,  on  a  dressing-table  upstairs,  was 
naturally  not  less  dazzling  to  a  lone  orphan 
of  a  housemaid  than  to  the  subject  of  the 
manoeuvres  of  a  quartette.  This  subject  went 
to  sleep  with  her  property  under  her  pillow; 
but  the  explanations  that  on  the  morrow 
were  inevitably  more  complete  with  Mrs. 
Beale  than  they  had  been  with  her  humble 
friend  found  a  climax  in  a  surrender  also 
more  becomingly  free.  There  were  expla- 
nations indeed  that  Mrs.  Beale  had  to  give 
as  well  as  to  ask,  and  the  most  striking  of 
these  was  to  the  effect  that  it  was  dreadful 
for  a  little  girl  to  take  money  from  a  woman 
who  was  simply  the  vilest  of  their  sex.  The 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      255 

sovereigns  were  examined  with  some  atten- 
tion, the  result  of  which,  however,  was  to 
make  Mrs.  Beale  desire  to  know  what,  if  one 
really  went  into  the  matter,  they  could  be 
called  but  the  wages  of  sin.  Her  companion 
went  into  it  merely  to  the  point  of  inquiring 
what  then  they  were  to  do  with  them ;  on 
which  Mrs.  Beale,  who  had  by  that  time  put 
them  into  her  pocket,  replied  with  dignity 
and  with  her  hand  on  the  place:  "We  're  to 
send  them  back  on  the  spot ! "  Susan,  the 
child  soon  afterwards  learnt,  had  been  invited 
to  contribute  to  this  act  of  restitution  her 
one  appropriated  coin;  but  a  closer  clutch 
of  the  treasure  showed  in  her  private  assur- 
ance to  Maisie  that  there  was  a  limit  to  the 
way  she  could  be  "done."  Maisie  had  been 
open  with  Mrs.  Beale  about  the  whole  of 
last  night's  transaction;  but  she  now  found 
herself,  on  the  part  of  their  indignant  infe- 
rior, a  recipient  of  remarks  that  she  must  feel 
to  be  scaring  secrets.  One  of  these  bore 
upon  the  extraordinary  hour  —  it  was  three 
in  the  morning,  if  she  really  wanted  to  know 
—  at  which  Mrs.  Beale  had  re-entered  the 
house;  another,  in  accents  as  to  which 
Maisie's  criticism  was  still  intensely  tacit, 
characterized  that  lady's  appeal  as  such  a 


256      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  gime, "  such  a  "  shime  "  as  one  had  never  had 
to  put  up  with;  a  third  treated  with  some 
vigor  the  question  of  the  enormous  sums 
due  below  stairs,  in  every  department,  for 
gratuitous  labor  and  wasted  zeal.  Our 
young  lady's  consciousness  was  indeed  mainly 
filled  for  several  days  with  the  apprehension 
created  by  the  too  slow  subsidence  of  her 
attendant's  sense  of  wrong.  These  days 
would  be  exciting  indeed  if  an  outbreak  in 
the  kitchen  should  crown  them ;  and,  to  pro- 
mote that  prospect,  she  had  more  than  one 
glimpse,  through  Susan's  eyes,  of  forces 
making  for  an  earthquake.  To  listen  to 
Susan  was  to  gather  that  the  spark  applied 
to  the  inflammables  and  already  causing 
them  to  crackle  was  the  circumstance  of 
one's  being  called  a  horrid  low  thief  for  re- 
fusing to  part  with  one's  own. 

The  redeeming  point  of  this  tension  was, 
on  the  fifth  day,  that  it  actually  appeared  to 
have  had  to  do  with  a  breathless  perception 
in  our  heroine's  breast  that,  scarcely  more 
as  the  centre  of  Sir  Claude's  than  as  that  of 
Susan's  energies,  she  had  soon  after  break- 
fast been  conveyed  from  London  to  Folke- 
stone and  established  at  a  lovely  hotel. 
These  agents,  before  her  wondering  eyes,  had 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      257 

combined  to  carry  through  the  adventure  and 
to  give  it  the  air  of  having  owed  its  success 
to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Beale  had,  as  Susan 
said,  but  just  stepped  out.  When  Sir 
Claude,  watch  in  hand,  had  met  this  fact  with 
the  exclamation  "Then  pack  Miss  Farange 
and  come  off  with  us !  "  there  had  ensued  on 
the  stairs  a  series  of  gymnastics  of  a  nature 
to  bring  Miss  Farange' s  heart  into  her 
mouth.  She  sat  with  Sir  Claude  in  a  four- 
wheeler  while  he  still  held  his  watch;  held 
it  longer  than  any  doctor  who  had  ever  felt 
her  pulse,  long  enough  to  give  her  a  vision  of 
something  like  the  ecstasy  of  neglecting  such 
an  opportunity  to  show  impatience.  The 
ecstasy  had  begun  in  the  schoolroom  and  over 
the  Berceuse,  quite  in  the  manner  of  the 
same  foretaste  on  the  day,  a  little  while 
back,  when  Susan  had  panted  up  and  she 
herself,  after  the  hint  about  the  Duchess, 
had  sailed  down;  for  what  harm  then  had 
there  been  in  drops  and  disappointments  if 
she  could  still  have,  even  only  a  moment, 
the  sensation  of  such  a  name  "brought  up"? 
It  had  remained  with  her  that  her  father  had 
told  her  she  would  some  day  be  in  the  street, 
but  it  clearly  wouldn't  be  this  day;  and  she 
felt  justified  of  her  preference  as  soon  as  her 
17 


258      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

visitor  had  set  Susan  in  motion  and  laid  his 
hand,  while  she  waited  with  him,  kindly  on 
her  own.  That  was  what  the  Captain  in 
Kensington  Gardens  had  done;  her  present 
situation  reminded  her  a  little  of  that  one, 
and  renewed  the  dim  wonder  of  the  way  in 
which,  from  the  first,  such  pats  and  pulls  had 
struck  her  as  the  steps  and  signs  of  other 
people's  business  and  even  a  little  as  the 
wriggle  or  the  overflow  of  their  difficulties. 
What  had  failed  her  and  what  had  frightened 
her  on  the  night  of  the  Exhibition  lost  them- 
selves at  present  alike  in  the  impression  that 
what  would  come  from  Sir  Claude  was  too 
big  to  come  all  at  once.  Any  awe  that 
might  have  sprung  from  his  air  of  leaving 
out  her  stepmother  was  corrected  by  the 
force  of  a  general  rule,  the  odd  truth  that  if 
Mrs.  Beale  now  never  came  nor  went  with- 
out making  her  think  of  him,  it  was  not,  to 
balance  that,  the  main  character  of  his  own 
contact  to  appear  to  be  a  reference  to  Mrs. 
Beale.  To  be  with  Sir  Claude  was  to  think 
of  Sir  Claude,  and  that  law  governed  Maisie's 
mind  until,  through  a  sudden  lurch  of  the 
cab,  which  had  at  last  taken  in  Susan  and 
ever  so  many  bundles  and  almost  reached 
Charing  Cross,  it  popped  again  somehow 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      259 

into  her  dizzy  head  the   long-lost  image  of 
Mrs.  Wix. 

It  was  singular,  but  from  this  time  she 
understood  and  she  followed,  followed  with 
the  sense  of  an  ample  filling-out  of  any  void 
created  by  symptoms  of  avoidance  and  of 
flight.  Her  ecstasy  was  a  thing  that  had  yet 
more  of  a  face  than  of  a  back  to  turn,  a  pair 
of  eyes  still  directed  to  Mrs.  Wix  even  after 
the  slight  surprise  of  their  not  finding  her, 
as  the  journey  expanded,  either  at  the  London 
station  or  at  the  Folkestone  hotel.  It  took 
few  hours  to  make  the  child  feel  that  if  she 
was  in  neither  of  these  places  she  was  at  least 
everywhere  else.  Maisie  had  known  all 
along  a  great  deal,  but  never  so  much  as  she 
was  to  know  from  this  moment  on,  and  as 
she  learned  in  particular  during  the  couple 
of  days  that  she  was  to  hang  in  the  air,  as  it 
were,  over  the  sea  which  represented,  in 
breezy  blueness  and  with  a  summer  charm,  a 
crossing  of  more  spaces  than  the  Channel. 
It  was  given  to  her  at  this  time  to  arrive  at 
divinations  so  ample  that  I  shall  have  no 
room  for  the  goal  if  I  attempt  to  trace  the 
stages;  as  to  which  therefore  I  must  be 
content  to  say  that  the  fullest  expression  we 
may  give  to  Sir  Claude's  conduct  is  a  poor 


260      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

and  pale  copy  of  the  picture  it  presented  to 
his  young  friend.  Abruptly,  that  morning, 
he  had  yielded  to  the  action  of  the  idea 
pumped  into  him  for  weeks  by  Mrs,  Wix  on 
lines  of  approach  that  she  had  been  capable 
of  the  extraordinary  art  of  preserving  from 
entanglement  with  the  fine  network  of  his 
relations  with  Mrs.  Beale.  The  breath  of 
her  sincerity,  blowing  without  a  break,  had 
puffed  him  up  to  the  flight  by  which,  in  the 
degree  I  have  indicated,  Maisie  too  was  car- 
ried off  her  feet.  This  consisted  in  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  brave  stroke  of  his 
getting  off  from  Mrs.  Beale  as  well  as  from 
his  wife  —  of  making  with  the  child  straight 
for  some  such  foreign  land  as  would  give  a 
support  to  Mrs.  Wix's  dream  that  she  might 
still  see  his  errors  renounced  and  his  delin- 
quencies redeemed.  What  other  reparation 
could  have  the  beauty  of  his  devoting  him- 
self, under  eyes  that  would  miss  no  faintest 
shade  of  the  sacrifice,  to  the  relief  and  rescue, 
to  what  even  the  strange  frequenters  of  her 
ladyship's  earlier  period  used  to  call  the 
real  good,  of  the  little  unfortunate  ?  Maisie' s 
head  held  a  suspicion  of  all  that,  during  the 
last  long  interval,  had  confusedly,  but  quite 
candidly,  come  and  gone  in  his  own ;  a 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       261 

glimpse,  almost  awe-stricken  in  its  gratitude, 
of  the  miracle  her  old  governess  had  wrought. 
That  functionary  could  not,  in  this  connec- 
tion, have  been  more  impressive,  even  at 
second-hand,  if  she  had  been  a  prophetess 
with  an  open  scroll  or  some  ardent  abbess 
speaking  with  the  lips  of  the  Church.  She 
had  clung  day  by  day  to  their  plastic  asso- 
ciate, plying  him  with  her  deep,  narrow  pas- 
sion, doing  her  simple  utmost  to  convert  him, 
and  so  inspiring  him  that  he  had  at  last  really 
embraced  his  fine  chance.  That  the  chance 
was  not  delusive  was  sufficiently  guaranteed 
by  the  completeness  with  which  he  could 
finally  figure  it  out  that,  in  case  of  his  taking 
action,  neither  Ida  nor  Beale,  whose  book  on 
each  side  it  would  only  too  well  suit,  would 
make  any  sort  of  row. 

It  sounds,  no  doubt,  too  penetrating,  but 
it  was  by  no  means  all  through  Sir  Claude's 
betrayals  that  Maisie  was  able  to  piece  to- 
gether the  beauty  of  the  special  influence 
through  which,  for  such  stretches  of  time, 
he  had  refined  upon  propriety  by  keeping  so 
far  as  possible  his  sentimental  interests  dis- 
tinct. She  had  ever  of  course  in  her  mind 
fewer  names  than  conceptions,  but  it  was 
only  with  this  drawback  that  she  now  made 


262      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

out  her  companion's  absences  to  have  had 
for  their  ground  that  he  was  the  lover  of  her 
stepmother,  and  that  the  lover  of  her  step- 
mother could  scarce  logically  pretend  to  a 
superior  right  to  look  after  her.  Maisie  had 
by  this  time  embraced  the  implication  of  a 
kind  of  natural  divergence  between  lovers  and 
little  girls.  It  was  just  this  indeed  that 
could  throw  light  on  the  probable  contents 
of  the  pencilled  note  deposited  on  the  hall- 
table  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and  which  would 
greet  Mrs.  Beale  on  her  return.  Maisie 
freely  figured  it  as  provisionally  jocular  in 
tone,  even  though  to  herself,  on  this  occasion, 
Sir  Claude  turned  a  graver  face  than  he  had 
shown  in  any  crisis  but  that  of  putting  her 
into  the  cab  when  she  had  been  horrid  to 
him  after  her  parting  with  the  Captain.  He 
might  really  be  embarrassed,  but  he  would 
be  sure,  to  her  view,  to  have  muffled  in  some 
bravado  of  pleasantry  the  disturbance  pro- 
duced at  her  father's  by  the  removal  of  a 
valued  servant.  Not  that  there  was  n't  a 
great  deal  too  that  would  n't  be  in  the  note  — 
a  great  deal  for  which  a  more  comfortable 
place  was  Maisie's  light  little  brain,  where 
it  hummed  away  hour  after  hour  and  caused 
the  first  outlook  at  Folkestone  to  swim  in 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      263 

a  softness  of  color  and  sound.  It  became 
clear  in  this  medium  that  her  stepfather  had 
really  now  only  to  take  into  account  his  en- 
tanglement with  Mrs.  Beale.  Was  n't  he  at 
last  disentangled  from  every  one  and  every- 
thing else?  The  obstacle  to  the  rupture 
pressed  upon  him  by  Mrs.  Wix  in  the  inter- 
est of  his  virtue  would  be  simply  that  he 
was  in  love,  or  rather,  to  put  it  more  pre- 
cisely, that  Mrs.  Beale  had  left  him  no  doubt 
of  the  degree  in  which  she  was.  She  was  so 
much  so  as  to  have  succeeded  in  making  him 
accept  for  a  time  her  infatuated  grasp  of  him 
and  even  to  some  extent  the  idea  of  what  they 
yet  might  do  together  with  a  little  diplomacy 
and  a  good  deal  of  patience.  I  may  not  even 
answer  for  it  that  Maisie  was  not  aware  of 
how,  in  this,  Mrs.  Beale  failed  to  share  his 
all  but  insurmountable  distaste  for  their 
allowing  their  little  charge  to  breathe  the  air 
of  their  gross  irregularity  —  his  contention, 
in  a  word,  that  they  should  either  cease  to 
be  irregular  or  cease  to  be  parental.  Their 
little  charge,  for  herself,  had  long  ago 
adopted  the  view  that  even  Mrs.  Wix  had  at 
one  time  not  thought  prohibitively  coarse  — 
the  view  that  she  was  after  all,  as  a  little 
charge,  morally  at  home  in  atmospheres  it 


264      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

would  be  appalling  to  analyze.  If  Mrs.  Wix, 
however,  ultimately  appalled,  had  now  set  her 
heart  on  strong  measures,  Maisie,  as  I  have 
intimated,  could  also  work  round  both  to  the 
reasons  for  them  and  to  the  quite  other 
reasons  for  that  lady's  not,  as  yet  at  least, 
appearing  in  them  at  first  hand. 

Oh,  decidedly,  I  shall  never  get  you  to  be- 
lieve the  number  of  things  she  saw  and  the 
number  of  secrets  she  discovered !  Why  in 
the  world,  for  instance,  could  n't  Sir  Claude 
have  kept  it  from  her  —  except  on  the  hypoth- 
esis of  his  not  caring  to  —  that,  when  you 
came  to  look  at  it  and  so  far  as  it  was  a 
question  of  vested  interests,  he  had  quite  as 
much  right  in  her  as  her  stepmother,  and  a 
right  that  Mrs.  Beale  was  in  no  position  tQ 
dispute?  He  failed,  at  all  events,  of  any 
such  successful  ambiguity  as  could  keep 
her,  when  once  they  began  to  look  across  at 
France,  from  regarding  even  what  was  least 
explained  as  most  in  the  spirit  of  their  old 
happy  times,  their  rambles  and  expeditions 
in  the  easier,  better  days  of  their  first  ac- 
quaintance. Never  before  had  she  had  so 
the  sense  of  giving  him  a  lead  for  the  sort  of 
treatment  of  what  was  between  them  that 
would  best  carry  it  off,  or  of  his  being  grate- 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       265 

ful  to  her  for  meeting  him  so  much  in  the 
right  place.  She  met  him  literally  at  the 
very  point  where  Mrs.  Beale  was  most  to  be 
reckoned  with,  the  point  of  the  jealousy  that 
was  sharp  in  that  lady  and  of  the  need  of  their 
keeping  it  as  long  as  possible  obscure  to  her 
that  poor  Mrs.  Wix  had  still  a  hand.  Yes, 
she  met  him  too  in  the  truth  of  the  matter 
that,  as  her  stepmother  had  had  no  one  else 
to  be  jealous  of,  she  had  made  up  for  so  gross 
a  privation  by  directing  the  sentiment  to  a 
moral  influence.  Sir  Claude  appeared  abso- 
lutely to  convey  in  a  wink  that  a  moral  influ- 
ence that  could  pull  a  string  was  after  all  a 
moral  influence  that  could  have  its  eyes 
scratched  out ;  and  that,  this  being  the  case, 
there  was  somebody  they  couldn't  afford  to 
expose  before  they  should  see  a  little  better 
what  Mrs.  Beale  was  likely  to  do.  Maisie, 
true  enough,  had  not  to  put  it  into  words  to 
rejoin  in  the  coffee-room  at  luncheon: 
"  What  can  she  do  but  come  to  you  if  papa 
does  take  a  step  that  will  amount  to  legal 
desertion  ?  "  Neither  had  he  then,  in  answer, 
to  articulate  anything  but  the  jollity  of  their 
having  found  a  table  at  a  window  from 
which,  as  they  partook  of  cold  beef  and  apol- 
linaris — for  he  hinted  they  would  have  to 


266      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

save  lots  of  money  —  they  could  let  their 
eyes  hover  tenderly  on  the  far-off  white  cliffs 
that  so  often  had  signalled  to  the  embar- 
rassed English  a  promise  of  safety.  Maisie 
stared  at  them  as  if  she  might  really  make 
out  after  a  little  a  queer,  dear  figure  perched 
on  them  —  a  figure  as  to  which  she  had 
already  the  subtle  sense  that,  wherever 
perched,  it  would  be  the  very  oddest  yet  seen 
in  France.  But  it  was  at  least  as  exciting 
to  feel  where  Mrs.  Wix  was  n't  as  it  would 
have  been  to  know  where  she  was ;  and  if  she 
wasn't  yet  at  Boulogne,  this  only  thickened 
the  plot. 

If  she  was  not  to  be  seen  that  day,  how- 
ever, the  evening  was  marked  by  an  appari- 
tion before  which,  none  the  less,  the  savor 
of  suspense  folded,  on  the  spot,  its  wings. 
Adjusting  her  respirations  and  attaching, 
under  dropped  lashes,  all  her  thoughts  to  a 
smartness  of  frock  and  frill  for  which  she 
could  reflect  that  she  had  not  appealed  in 
vain  to  a  loyalty,  in  Susan  Ash,  triumphant 
over  the  nice  things  their  feverish  flight  had 
left  behind,  Maisie  spent  on  the  bench  in 
the  garden  of  the  hotel  the  half-hour  before 
dinner,  that  mysterious  ceremony  of  the  table 
d'hdte  for  which  she  had  prepared  with  a 


WHAT    MAISIE  KNEW      267 

'punctuality  of  flutter.  Sir  Claude,  beside 
her,  was  occupied  with  a  cigarette  and  the 
afternoon  papers ;  and  though  the  hotel  was 
full  the  garden  showed  the  particular  void 
that  ensues  upon  the  sound  of  the  dressing- 
bell.  She  had  almost  had  time  to  weary  of 
the  human  scene ;  her  own  humanity,  at  any 
rate,  in  the  shape  of  a  smutch  on  her  scanty 
skirt,  had  held  her  so  long  that  as  soon  as 
she  raised  her  eyes  they  rested  on  a  high, 
fair  drapery  by  which  smutches  were  put  to 
shame  and  which  had  glided  toward  her  over 
the  grass  without  her  perceiving  its  rustle. 
She  fallowed  up  its  stiff  sheen  —  up  and  up 
from  the  ground,  where  it  had  stopped  —  till, 
at  the  end  of  a  considerable  journey,  her 
impression  felt  the  shock  of  the  fixed  face 
which,  surmounting  it,  seemed  to  offer  the 
climax  of  the  dressed  condition.  "Why, 
mamma ! "  she  cried  the  next  instant  —  cried 
in  a  tone  that,  as  she  sprang  to  her  feet, 
brought  Sir  Claude  to  his  own  beside  her 
and  gave  her  ladyship,  a  few  yards  off,  the 
advantage  of  their  momentary  confusion. 
Poor  Maisie's  was  immense;  her  mother's 
drop  had  the  effect  of  one  of  the  iron  shut- 
ters that,  in  evening  walks  with  Susan  Ash, 
she  had  seen  suddenly,  at  the  touch  of  a 


268       WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

spring,  rattle  down  over  shining  shop-fronts. 
The  light  of  foreign  travel  was  darkened  at  a 
stroke;  she  had  a  horrible  sense  that  they 
were  caught;  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  in  Ida's  presence,  she  so  far  translated 
an  impulse  into  an  invidious  act  as  to  clutch 
straight  at  the  hand  of  her  responsible  con- 
federate. It  did  n't  help  her  that  he  appeared 
at  first  equally  hushed  with  horror;  a  minute 
during  which,  in  the  empty  garden,  with  its 
long  shadows  on  the  lawn,  its  blue  sea  over 
the  hedge  and  its  startled  peace  in  the  air, 
both  her  elders  remained  as  stiff  as  tall  tum- 
blers filled  to  the  brim  and  held  straight  for 
fear  of  a  spill.  At  last,  in  a  tone  that,  in  its 
unexpected  softness,  enriched  the  whole  sur- 
prise, her  mother  said  to  Sir  Claude:  "Do 
you  mind  at  all  my  speaking  to  her? " 

"Oh,  no;  do  you?"  His  reply  was  so 
long  in  coming  that  Maisie  was  the  first  to 
find  the  right  note. 

He  laughed  as  he  seemed  to  take  it  from 
her,  and  she  felt  a  sufficient  concession  in 
his  manner  of  addressing  their  visitor. 
"  How  in  the  world  did  you  know  we  were 
here?" 

His  wife,  at  this,  came  the  rest  of  the  way 
and  sat  down  on  the  bench  with  a  hand  laid 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      269 

on  her  daughter,  whom  she  gracefully  drew 
to  her  and  in  whom,  at  her  touch,  the  fear 
just  kindled  gave  a  second  jump,  but  now  in 
quite  another  direction.  Sir  Claude,  on  the 
further  side,  resumed  his  seat  and  his  news- 
papers, and  the  three  grouped  themselves  like 
a  family  party :  his  connection,  in  the  oddest 
way  in  the  world,  almost  cynically,  and  in  a 
flash,  acknowledged,  and  the  mother  patting 
the  child  into  conformities  unspeakable. 

Maisie  could  already  feel  that  it  was  not 
Sir  Claude  and  she  who  were  caught.  She 
had  the  positive  sense  of  catching  their 
relative,  catching  her  in  the  act  of  getting 
rid  of  her  burden  with  a  finality  that  showed 
her  as  unprecedentedly  relaxed.  Oh,  yes, 
the  fear  had  dropped,  and  she  had  never  been 
so  irrevocably  parted  with  as  in  the  pressure 
of  possession  now  supremely  exerted  by  Ida's 
long-gloved  and  much-bangled  arms.  "  I  went 
to  the  Regent's  Park  "  —  this  was  presently 
her  ladyship's  answer  to  Sir  Claude. 

"  Do  you  mean  to-day?  " 

"This  morning  —  just  after  your  own  call 
there.  That's  how  I  find  you  out;  that's 
what  has  brought  me." 

Sir  Claude  considered,  and  Maisie  waited. 
"Whom  then  did  you  see? " 


270      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

Ida  gave  a  sound  of  indulgent  mockery. 
"  I  like  your  scare.  I  know  your  game.  I 
did  n't  see  the  person  I  risked  seeing  —  but 
I  had  been  ready  to  take  my  chance  of  her." 
She  addressed  herself  to  Maisie;  she  had 
encircled  her  more  closely.  "  I  asked  for 
you,  my  dear,  but  I  saw  no  one  but  a  dirty 
parlor-maid.  She  was  red  in  the  face  with 
the  great  things  that,  as  she  told  me,  had 
just  happened  in  the  absence  of  her  mistress; 
and  she  luckily  had  the  sense  to  have  made 
out  the  place  to  which  Sir  Claude  had  come 
to  take  you.  If  he  had  n't  given  a  false  scent 
I  should  find  you  here :  that  was  the  supposi- 
tion on  which  I  've  proceeded. "  Ida  had 
never  been  so  explicit  about  proceeding  or 
supposing,  and  Maisie,  drinking  this  in,  was 
aware  that  Sir  Claude  shared  her  fine  im- 
pression of  it.  "I  wanted  to  see  you,"  his 
wife  continued,  "and  now  you  can  judge  of 
the  trouble  I  've  taken.  I  had  everything 
to  do  in  town  to-day,  but  I  managed  to  get 
off." 

Maisie  and  her  companion,  for  a  moment, 
did  justice  to  this  achievement;  but  Maisie 
was  the  first  to  express  it.  "I'm  glad  you 
wanted  to  see  me,  mamma."  Then  after 
a  concentration  more  deep  and  with  a  plunge 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      271 

more  brave:  "A  little  more  and  you  'd  have 
been  too  late."  It  stuck  in  her  throat,  but 
she  brought  it  out.  "We're  going  to 
France." 

Ida  was  magnificent ;  Ida  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead.  "  That 's  just  what  I  thought  likely 
—  it  made  me  decide  to  run  down.  I  fan- 
cied that  in  spite  of  your  scramble  you  'd 
wait  to  cross,  and  it  added  to  the  reason  I 
have  for  seeing  you. " 

Maisie  wondered  intensely  what  the  reason 
could  be,  but  she  knew  ever  so  much  better 
than  to  ask.  She  was  slightly  surprised 
indeed  to  perceive  that  Sir  Claude  did  n't, 
and  to  hear  him  immediately  inquire: 
"What  in  the  name  of  goodness  can  you 
have  to  say  to  her  ? " 

His  tone  was  not  exactly  rude,  but  it  was 
impatient  enough  to  make  his  wife's  re- 
sponse a  fresh  specimen  of  the  new  softness. 
"That,  my  dear  man,  is  all  my  own  busi- 
ness." 

"Do  you  mean,"  Sir  Claude  asked,  "that 
you  wish  me  to  leave  you  with  her? " 

"  Yes  —  if  you  '11  be  so  good.  That 's  the 
extraordinary  request  I  take  the  liberty  of 
making."  Her  ladyship  had  dropped  to  a 
mildness  of  irony  by  which,  for  a  moment, 


272      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

poor  Maisie  was  mystified  and  charmed,  puz- 
zled with  a  glimpse  of  something  that  in  all 
the  years  had  at  intervals  peeped  out.  Ida 
smiled  at  Sir  Claude  with  the  strange  air 
she  had  on  such  occasions  of  defying  an  in- 
terlocutor to  keep  it  up  as  long;  her  huge 
eyes,  her  red  lips,  the  intense  marks  in  her 
face,  formed  an  illumination  as  distinct  and 
public  as  a  lamp  set  in  a  window.  The 
child  seemed  quite  to  see  in  it  the  very  lamp 
that  had  lighted  her  path;  she  suddenly 
found  herself  reflecting  that  it  was  no  won- 
der the  gentlemen  were  dazzled.  This  must 
have  been  the  way  mamma  had  first  looked 
at  Sir  Claude;  it  brought  back  the  lustre  of 
the  time  they  had  outlived.  It  must  have 
been  the  way  she  looked  also  at  Mr.  Perriam 
and  Lord  Eric;  above  all  it  contributed  in 
Maisie' s  mind  to  a  completer  view  of  the 
Captain.  Our  young  lady  grasped  this  idea 
with  a  quick  lifting  of  the  heart ;  there  was 
a  stillness  during  which  her  mother  flooded 
her  with  a  wealth  of  support  to  the  Captain's 
striking  tribute.  This  stillness  remained 
long  enough  unbroken  to  represent  that  Sir 
Claude  too  might  literally  be  struggling 
again  with  the  element  that  had  originally 
upset  him :  so  that  Maisie  quite  hoped  he 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      273 

would  at  least  say  something  to  show  a  recog- 
nition that  she  could  be  charming. 

What  he  presently  said  was:  "Are  you 
putting  up  for  the  night?" 

His  wife  hesitated.  "Not  here — I've 
come  from  Dover." 

Over  Maisie's  head,  at  this,  they  still  faced 
each  other.  "  You  spend  the  night  there  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  brought  some  things.  I  went  to 
the  hotel  and  hastily  arranged;  then  I 
caught  the  train  that  whisked  me  on  here. 
You  see  what  a  day  I've  had  of  it." 

The  statement  may  surprise,  but  these 
were  really  as  obliging  if  not  as  lucid  words 
as,  into  her  daughter's  ears  at  least,  Ida's 
lips  had  ever  dropped  ;  and  there  was  a  quick 
desire  in  the  daughter  that,  for  the  hour  at 
any  rate,  they  should  duly  be  welcomed  as  a 
ground  of  intercourse.  Certainly  mamma 
had  a  charm  which,  when  turned  on,  became 
a  large  explanation ;  and  the  only  danger 
now  in  an  impulse  to  applaud  it  would  be 
that  of  appearing  to  signalize  its  rarity. 
Maisie,  however,  risked  this  peril  in  the 
geniality  of  an  admission  that  Ida  had  indeed 
had  a  rush ;  and  she  invited  Sir  Claude  to 
expose  himself  by  agreeing  with  her  that  the 
rush  had  been  even  worse  than  theirs.  He 
18 


274      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

appeared  to  meet  this  appeal  by  saying  with 
detachment  enough:  "You  go  back  there 
to-night?" 

"  Oh,  yes  —  there  are  plenty  of  trains. " 
Again  Sir  Claude  hesitated;  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  say  if  the  child  between  them 
more  connected  or  divided  them.  Then  he 
brought  out  quietly :  **  It  will  be  late  for  you 
to  knock  about.  I  '11  see  you  over." 

"  You  need  n't  trouble,  thank  you.  I  think 
you  won't  deny  that  I  can  help  myself  and 
that  it  is  n't  the  first  time  in  my  dreadful  life 
that  I  've  somehow  managed  it."  Save  for 
this  allusion  to  her  dreadful  life  they  talked 
there,  Maisie  noted,  as  if  they  were  only 
rather  superficial  friends;  a  special  effect 
that  she  had  often  wondered  at  before  in  the 
midst  of  what  she  supposed  to  be  intimacies. 
This  effect  was  augmented  by  the  almost 
casual  manner  in  which  her  ladyship  went 
on :  "I  dare  say  I  shall  go  abroad. " 

"  From  Dover,  do  you  mean,  straight  ?  " 

"How  straight  I  can't  say.  I'm  exces- 
sively ill."  This,  for  a  minute,  struck  Maisie 
as  but  a  part  of  the  conversation ;  at  the  end 
of  which  time  she  became  aware  that  it  ought 
to  strike  her  —  as  it  apparently  didn't  strike 
Sir  Claude  —  as  a  part  of  something  graver. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      275 

It  helped  her  to  twist  nearer.     "  111,  mamma 
—  really  ill?" 

She  regretted  her  "  really  "  as  soon  as  she 
had  spoken  it ;  but  there  could  n't  be  a  better 
proof  of  her  mother's  present  polish  than 
that  Ida  showed  no  gleam  of  a  temper  to 
take  it  up.  She  had  taken  up  at  other 
times  much  tinier  things.  She  only  pressed 
Maisie's  head  against  her  bosom  and  said: 
"Shockingly,  my  dear.  I  must  go  to  that 
new  place." 

"What  new  place?"  Sir  Claude  inquired. 

Ida  thought,  but  could  n't  recall  it.  "  Oh, 
'  Chose, '  you  know  —  where  every  one  goes. 
I  want  some  proper  treatment.  It  's  all  I  've 
ever  asked  for  on  earth.  But  that 's  not  what 
I  came  to  say. " 

Sir  Claude,  in  silence,  folded  one  by  one 
his  newspapers;  then  he  rose  and  stood 
whacking  the  palm  of  his  hand  with  the 
bundle.  "  You  '11  stop  and  dine  with  us  ?  " 

"Dear  no  —  I  can't  dine  at  this  sort  of 
hour.  I  ordered  dinner  at  Dover." 

Her  ladyship's  tone  in  this  one  instance 
showed  a  certain  superiority  to  those  condi- 
tions in  which  her  daughter  had  artlessly 
found  Folkestone  a  paradise.  It  was  yet  not 
so  crushing  as  to  nip  in  the  bud  the  eager- 


276       WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

ness  with  which  the  latter  broke  out :  "  But 
won't  you  at  least  have  a  cup  of  tea? " 

Ida  kissed  her  again  on  the  brow. 
"Thanks,  love.  I  had  tea  before  coming." 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  Sir  Claude.  "  She  is 
sweet!"  He  made  no  more  answer  than  if 
he  did  n't  agree ;  but  Maisie  was  at  ease 
about  that  and  was  still  taken  up  with  the  joy 
of  this  happier  pitch  of  their  talk,  which  put 
more  and  more  of  a  meaning  into  the  Cap- 
tain's version  of  her  ladyship  and  literally 
kindled  a  conjecture  that  this  admirer  might, 
over  there  at  the  other  place,  be  waiting  for 
her  to  dine.  Was  the  same  conjecture  in  Sir 
Claude's  mind  ?  He  partly  puzzled  her,  if 
it  had  risen  there,  by  the  slight  perversity 
with  which  he  returned  to  a  question  that  his 
wife  evidently  thought  she  had  disposed  of. 

He  whacked  his  hand  again  with  his  papers. 
"  I  had  really  much  better  take  you." 

"And  leave  Maisie  here  alone?" 

Mamma  so  clearly  didn't  want  it  that 
Maisie  leaped  at  the  vision  of  a  Captain  who 
had  seen  her  on  from  Dover  and  who,  while 
he  waited  to  take  her  back,  would  be  hover- 
ing just  at  the  same  distance  at  which,  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  the  companion  of  his 
walk  had  herself  hovered.  Of  course,  how- 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       277 

ever,  instead  of  breathing  any  such  guess  she 
let  Sir  Claude  reply  ;  all  the  more  that  his 
reply  could  contribute  so  much  to  her  own 
present  grandeur.  "  She  won't  be  alone 
when  she  has  a  maid  in  attendance." 

Maisie  had  never  before  had  so  much  of  a 
retinue  and  she  waited  also  to  enjoy  the  ef- 
fect of  it  on  her  ladyship.  "  You  mean  the 
woman  you  brought  from  town?  "  Ida  con- 
sidered. "  The  person  at  the  house  spoke  of 
her  in  a  way  that  scarcely  made  her  out  com- 
pany for  my  child."  She  spoke  as  if  her 
child  had  never  wanted,  in  her  hands,  for  pro- 
digious company.  But  she  as  distinctly  con- 
tinued to  decline  Sir  Claude's.  "  Don't  be  an 
old  goose,"  she  said  charmingly.  "  Let  us 
alone." 

Before  them,  on  the  grass,  he  looked 
graver  than  Maisie  at  all  now  thought  the 
occasion  warranted.  "  I  don't  see  why  you 
can't  say  it  before  me." 

His  wife  smoothed  one  of  her  daughter's 
curls.  "Say  what,  dear?" 

"  Why,  what  you  came  to  say." 

At  this  Maisie  at  last  interposed ;  sh£  ap- 
pealed to  Sir  Claude.  "  Do  let  her  say  it  to 
me." 

He  looked  hard  for  a  moment  at  his  little 


278      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

friend.  "  How  do  you  know  what  she  may 
say?" 

"  She  must  risk  it,"  Ida  remarked. 

"  I  only  want  to  protect  you,"  he  continued 
to  the  child. 

"  You  want  to  protect  yourself —  that 's 
what  you  mean,"  his  wife  replied.  "  Don't 
be  afraid.  I  won't  touch  you." 

"  She  won't  touch  you  —  she  won't !  " 
Maisie  declared.  She  felt  by  this  time  that 
she  could  really  answer  for  it,  and  something 
of  the  emotion  with  which  she  had  listened 
to  the  Captain  came  back  to  her.  It  made 
her  so  happy  and  so  secure  that  she  could 
positively  patronize  mamma.  She  did  so  in 
the  Captain's  very  language.  "  She  's  good, 
she 's  good  !  "  she  proclaimed. 

"  Oh,  Lord ! "  Sir  Claude,  at  this,  ejacu- 
lated. He  appeared  to  have  emitted  some 
sound  of  derision  that  was  smothered,  to 
Maisie's  ears,  by  her  being  again  embraced 
by  his  wife.  Ida  released  her  and  held  her 
off  a  little,  looking  at  her  with  a  very  queer 
face.  Then  the  child  became  aware  that 
their  companion  had  left  them  and  that,  from 
the  face  in  question,  a  confirmatory  remark 
had  proceeded. 

"  I  am  good,  love,"  said  her  ladyship. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      279 


XXI 

A  GOOD  deal  of  the  rest  of  Ida's  visit  was 
devoted  to  explaining,  as  it  were,  so  extra- 
ordinary a  statement.  This  explanation  was 
more  copious  than  any  she  had  yet  indulged 
in,  and  as  the  summer  twilight  gathered  and 
she  kept  her  child  in  the  garden  she  was  con- 
ciliatory to  a  degree  that  let  her  need  to 
arrange  things  a  little  perceptibly  peep  out. 
It  was  not  merely  that  she  explained;  she 
almost  conversed :  all  that  was  wanting  to 
that  was  that  she  should  have  positively 
chattered  a  little  less.  It  was  really  the  oc- 
casion of  Maisie's  life  on  which  her  mother 
was  to  have  had  most  to  say  to  her.  That 
alone  was  an  implication  of  generosity  and 
virtue,  and  no  great  stretch  was  required  to 
make  our  young  lady  feel  that  she  should 
best  meet  her  and  soonest  have  it  over  by 
simply  seeming  struck  with  the  propriety  of 
her  contention.  They  sat  together  while  the 
parent's  gloved  hand  sometimes  rested 
sociably  on  the  child's  and  sometimes  gave  a 
corrective  pull  to  a  ribbon  too  meagre  or  a 
tress  too  thick ;  and  Maisie  was  conscious  of 


28o      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

the  effort  to  keep  out  of  her  eyes  the  wonder 
with  which  they  were  occasionally  moved  to 
blink.  Oh,  there  would  have  been  things  to 
blink  at  if  one  had  let  one's  self  go ;  and  it 
was  lucky  they  were  alone  together,  without 
Sir  Claude  or  Mrs.  Wix  or  even  Mrs.  Beale 
to  catch  an  imprudent  glance.  Though  pro- 
fuse and  prolonged,  her  ladyship  was  not 
exhaustively  lucid,  and  her  account  of  her 
situation,  so  far  as  it  could  be  called 
descriptive,  was  a  muddle  of  inconsequent 
things,  bruised  fruit  of  an  occasion  she  had 
rather  too  lightly  affronted.  None  of  them 
were  really  thought  out,  and  some  were  even 
not  wholly  insincere.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
asked  outright  what  better  proof  could  have 
been  wanted  of  her  goodness  and  her  great- 
ness than  just  this  marvellous  consent  to  give 
up  what  she  had  so  cherished.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  said  in  so  many  words :  "  There 
have  been  things  between  us  —  between  Sir 
Claude  and  me  —  which  I  needn't  go  into, 
you  little  nuisance,  because  you  would  n't 
understand  them."  It  suited  her  to  convey 
that  Maisie  had  been  kept,  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned  or  could  imagine,  in  a  holy  igno- 
rance and  that  she  must  take  for  granted  a 
supreme  simplicity.  She  turned  this  way 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      281 

and  that  in  the  predicament  she  had  sought 
and  from  which  she  could  neither  retreat  with 
grace  nor  emerge  with  credit;  she  draped 
herself  in  the  tatters  of  her  impudence,  pos- 
tured to  her  utmost  before  the  last  little  tri- 
angle of  cracked  glass  to  which  so  many 
fractures  had  reduced  the  polished  plate  of 
filial  superstition.  If  neither  Sir  Claude  nor 
Mrs.  Wix  was  there  this  was  perhaps  all  the 
more  a  pity :  the  scene  had  a  style  of  its  own 
that  would  have  qualified  it  for  presentation, 
especially  at  such  a  moment  as  that  of  her 
letting  it  betray  that  she  quite  did  think  her 
wretched  offspring  better  placed  with  Sir 
Claude  than  in  her  own  soiled  hands.  There 
was  at  any  rate  nothing  scant  either  in  her 
admissions  or  her  perversions,  the  mixture  of 
her  fear  of  what  Maisie  might  undiscoverably 
think  and  of  the  support  she  at  the  same  time 
gathered  from  a  necessity  of  selfishness  and 
a  habit  of  brutality.  This  habit  flushed 
through  the  merit  she  now  made,  in  terms 
explicit,  of  not  having  come  to  Folkestone  to 
kick  up  a  vulgar  row.  She  had  not  come  to 
box  any  ears  or  to  bang  any  doors  or  even 
to  use  any  language;  she  had  come,  at  the 
worst,  to  lose  the  thread  of  her  argument  in 
an  occasional  dumb,  disgusted  twitch  of  the 


282      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

toggery  in  which  Mrs.  Beale's  low  domestic 
had  had  the  impudence  to  serve  up  Miss 
Farange.  She  checked  all  criticism,  not 
committing  herself  even  as  much  as  about 
those  missing  comforts  of  the  schoolroom  on 
which  Mrs.  Wix  had  presumed. 

"  I  am  good  —  I'm  crazily,  I  'm  criminally 
good.  But  it  won't  do  for  you  any  more,  and 
if  I  Ve  ceased  to  contend  with  him,  and  with 
you  too,  who  have  made  most  of  the  trouble 
between  us,  it 's  for  reasons  that  you  '11  under- 
stand one  of  these  days  but  too  well  —  one  of 
these  days  when  I  hope  you  '11  know  what  it 
is  to  have  lost  a  mother.  I  'm  awfully  ill,  but 
you  must  n't  ask  me  anything  about  it.  If  I 
don't  get  off  somewhere  my  doctor  won't  an- 
swer for  the  consequences.  He's  stupefied 
at  what  I  Ve  borne  —  he  says  it  has  been  put 
on  me  because  I  was  formed  to  suffer.  I  'm 
thinking  of  South  Africa,  but  that 's  none  of 
your  business.  You  must  take  your  choice 
—  you  can't  ask  me  questions  if  you're  so 
ready  to  give  me  up.  No,  I  won't  tell  you : 
you  can  find  out  for  yourself.  South  Africa 
is  wonderful,  they  say,  and  if  I  do  go  it 
must  be  to  give  it  a  fair  trial.  It  must  be 
either  one  thing  or  the  other;  if  he  takes 
you,  you  know,  he  takes  you.  I  Ve  struck 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      283 

my  last  blow  for  you ;  I  can  follow  you  no 
longer  from  pillar  to  post.  I  must  live  for 
myself  at  last  —  while  there  's  still  a  handful 
left  of  me.  I  'm  very  very  ill ;  I  'm  very  very 
tired ;  I  'm  very  very  determined.  There  you 
have  it :  make  the  most  of  it.  Your  frock  is 
too  filthy  —  but  I  came  to  sacrifice  myself." 
Maisie  looked  at  the  peccant  places;  there 
were  moments  when  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to 
drop  her  eyes  even  on  anything  so  sordid. 
All  her  interviews,  all  her  ordeals  with  her 
mother  had,  as  she  had  grown  older,  seemed 
to  have,  before  any  other,  the  hard  quality  of 
duration ;  but  longer  than  any,  strangely,  were 
these  minutes  offered  to  her  as  so  pacific  and 
so  agreeably  winding  up  the  connection.  It 
was  her  anxiety  that  made  them  long,  her  fear 
of  some  hitch,  some  check  of  the  current,  one 
of  her  ladyship's  famous  quick  jumps.  She 
held  her  breath ;  she  only  wanted,  by  play- 
ing into  her  visitor's  hands,  to  see  the  thing 
through.  But  her  impatience  itself  made  at 
instants  the  whole  situation  swim ;  there  were 
things  Ida  said  which  she  perhaps  did  n't 
hear,  and  there  were  things  she  heard  that 
Ida  perhaps  did  n't  say.  "  You  're  all  I  have, 
and  yet  I  'm  capable  of  this.  Your  father 
wishes  you  were  dead  —  that,  my  dear,  is 


284      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

what  your  father  wishes.  You  '11  have  to  get 
used  to  it  as  I  Ve  done  —  I  mean  to  his  wish- 
ing that  I'm  dead.  At  all  events  you  see  for 
yourself  how  wonderful  I  am  to  Sir  Claude. 
He  wishes  me  dead  quite  as  much ;  and  I  'm 
sure  that  if  making  me  scenes  about  you  could 
have  killed  me  — !  "  It  was  the  mark  of  Ida's 
eloquence  that  she  started  more  hares  than 
she  followed,  and  she  gave  but  a  glance  in 
the  direction  of  this  one;  going  on  to  say 
that  the  very  proof  of  her  treating  her  hus- 
band like  an  angel  was  that  he  had  just  stolen 
off  not  to  be  fairly  shamed.  She  spoke  as  if 
he  had  retired  on  tiptoe  as  he  might  have 
withdrawn  from  a  place  of  sanctity  in  which 
he  was  not  fit  to  be  present.  "  You  '11  never 
know  what  I  Ve  been  through  about  you  — 
never,  never,  never.  I  spare  you  everything, 
as  I  always  have ;  though  I  dare  say  you  know 
things  that,  if  I  did  (I  mean  if  I  knew  you 
knew  them),  would  make  me  —  well,  no  mat- 
ter !  You  're  old  enough  at  any  rate  to  know 
there  are  a  lot  of  things  I  don't  say  that 
I  easily  might;  though  it  would  do  me 
good,  I  assure  you,  to  have  spoken  my  mind 
for  once  in  my  life.  I  don't  speak  of  your 
father's  infamous  wife :  that  may  give  you  a 
notion  of  the  way  I  'm  letting  you  off.  When 


WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW      285 

I  say  *  you  '  I  mean  your  precious  friends  and 
backers.  If  you  don't  do  justice  to  my  for- 
bearing, out  of  delicacy,  to  mention,  just  as  a 
last  word,  about  your  stepfather,  a  little  fact 
or  two  —  of  a  kind  that  really  I  should  only 
have  to  mention  to  shine,  myself,  in  com- 
parison and  after  every  calumny,  like  pure 
gold :  if  you  don't  do  me  that  justice  you  '11 
never  do  me  justice  at  all !  " 

Maisie's  desire  to  show  what  justice  she 
did  her  had  by  this  time  become  so  intense 
as  to  have  brought  with  it  an  inspiration. 
The  great  effect  of  their  encounter  had  been 
to  confirm  her  sense  of  being  launched  with 
Sir  Claude,  to  make  it  rich  and  full  beyond 
anything  she  had  dreamed,  and  everything 
now  conspired  to  suggest  that  a  single  soft 
touch  of  her  small  hand  would  complete  the 
good  work  and  set  her  ladyship  so  promptly 
and  majestically  afloat  as  to  leave  the  great 
sea-way  clear  for  the  morrow.  This  was  the 
more  the  case  as  her  hand  had  for  some 
moments  been  rendered  free  by  a  marked 
manoeuvre  of  both  of  her  mother's.  One  of 
these  capricious  members  had  fumbled  with 
visible  impatience  in  some  backward  depth 
of  drapery,  and  had  presently  reappeared 
with  a  small  object  in  its  grasp.  The  act  had 


286      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

a  significance  for  a  little  person  trained,  in  that 
relation,  from  an  early  age,  to  keep  an  eye  on 
manual  motions,  and  its  possible  bearing  was 
not  darkened  by  the  memory  of  the  handful 
of  gold  that  Susan  Ash  would  never,  never 
believe  Mrs.  Beale  had  sent  back  —  "  not  she ; 
she's  too  false  and  too  greedy!"  —  to  the 
munificent  Countess.  To  have  guessed,  none 
the  less,  that  her  ladyship's  purse  might  con- 
fess an  identity  with  the  token  extracted  from 
the  rustling  covert  of  her  rear  —  this  suspicion 
gave  on  the  spot  to  the  child's  eyes  a  direc- 
tion carefully  distant.  It  added  moreover  to 
the  optimism  that  for  the  hour  could  ruffle 
the  surface  of  her  deep  diplomacy,  ruffle  it 
to  the  point  of  making  her  forget  that  she 
had  never  been  safe  unless  she  had  also  been 
stupid.  She  in  short  forgot  her  habitual 
caution  in  her  impulse  to  adopt  her  lady- 
ship's practical  interests  and  show  her  lady- 
ship how  perfectly  she  understood  them. 
She  saw  without  looking  that  her  mother 
pressed  a  little  clasp ;  heard  without  wanting 
to  the  sharp  click  that  marked  the  closing 
of  a  portemonnaie  from  which  something  had 
been  taken.  What  this  was  she  just  did  n't 
see :  it  was  not  too  substantial  to  be  locked 
with  ease  in  the  fold  of  her  ladyship's  fingers. 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      287 

Nothing  was  less  new  to  Maisie  than  the  art 
of  not  thinking  singly ;  so  that  at  this  instant 
she  could  both  bring  out  what  was  on  her 
tongue's  end  and  weigh  as  to  the  object  in 
her  mother's  palm,  the  question  of  its  being 
a  sovereign  against  the  question  of  its  being 
a  shilling.  No  sooner  had  she  begun  to 
speak  than  she  saw  that  within  a  few  sec- 
onds this  question  would  have  been  settled : 
she  had  foolishly  arrested  the  rising  word  of 
the  little  speech  of  presentation  to  which, 
under  the  circumstances,  even  such  a  high 
pride  as  Ida's  had  had  to  give  some  thought. 
She  had  arrested  it  completely  —  that  was 
the  next  thing  she  felt :  the  note  she  sounded 
brought  into  her  companion's  eyes  a  look 
that,  quickly  enough,  seemed  at  variance  with 
presentations. 

"That  was  what  the  Captain  said  to  me 
that  day,  mamma:  I  think  it  would  have 
given  you  pleasure  to  hear  the  way  he  spoke 
of  you." 

The  pleasure,  Maisie  could  now  in  conster- 
nation reflect,  would  have  been  a  long  time 
coming  if  it  had  come  no  faster  than  the  re- 
sponse evoked  by  her  allusion  to  it.  Her 
mother  gave  her  one  of  the  looks  that 
slammed  the  door  in  her  face:  never,  in  a 


288      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

career  of  unsuccessful  experiments,  had 
Maisie  had  to  take  such  a  stare.  It  re- 
minded her  of  the  way  that  once,  at  one  of 
the  lectures  in  Glower  Street,  something  in 
a  big  jar  that,  amid  an  array  of  strange 
glasses  and  bad  smells,  had  been  promised 
as  a  beautiful  yellow  was  produced  as  a 
beautiful  black.  She  had  been  sorry  on 
that  occasion  for  the  lecturer,  but  she  was 
at  this  moment  sorrier  for  herself.  Oh, 
nothing  had  ever  made  for  twinges  like 
mamma's  manner  of  saying:  "The  Captain? 
What  captain  ? " 

"  Why,  when  we  met  you  in  the  Gardens 
—  the  one  who  took  me  to  sit  with  him. 
That  was  exactly  what  he  said. " 

Ida  met  her  so  far  as  to  appear  for  an  in- 
stant to  pick  up  a  lost  thread.  "What  on 
earth  did  he  say  ?  " 

Maisie  faltered  supremely,  but  supremely 
she  brought  it  out.  "  What  you  say,  mamma. 
That  you  're  so  good." 

"What  '  I '  say?  "  Ida  slowly  rose,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  on  her  child,  and  the  hand  that 
had  busied  itself  in  her  purse  conformed, 
at  her  side  and  amid  the  folds  of  her  dress, 
to  a  certain  stiffening  of  the  arm.  "  I  say 
you  're  a  precious  idiot,  and  I  won't  have  you 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       289 

put  words  into  my  mouth  ! "  This  was  much 
more  peremptory  than  a  mere  contradiction : 
Maisie  could  only  feel  on  the  spot  that  every- 
thing had  broken  short  off  and  that  their 
communication  had  abruptly  ceased.  That 
came  out  as  Ida  went  on:  "What  business 
have  you  to  speak  to  me  of  him  ?  " 

Her  daughter  turned  scarlet.  "  I  thought 
you  liked  him." 

"Him  —  the  biggest  cad  in  London?" 
Her  ladyship  towered  again,  and  in  the  gath- 
ered dusk  the  whites  of  her  eyes  were  huge. 

Maisie' s  own,  however,  could  by  this  time 
pretty  well  match  them ;  and  she  had  at  least 
now,  with  the  first  flare  of   anger  that  had 
ever  yet  lighted  her  face  for  a  foe,  the  sense 
of  looking  up  quite  as  hard  as  any  one  could 
look  down.     "  Well,  he  was  kind  about  you 
then ;  he  was,  and  it  made  me  like  him.     He 
said  things  —  they  were  beautiful ;  they  were, 
they  were !  "     She  was  almost  capable  of  the 
violence  of  forcing  this  home;  for  even  in 
the  midst  of  her  surge  of  passion  —  of  which, 
in  fact,  it  was  a  part  —  there  rose  in  her  a 
fear,  a  pain,  a  vision  ominous,  precocious, 
of  what  it  might  mean  for  her  mother's  fate 
to   have   forfeited    such   a   loyalty   as   that. 
There   was    literally   an    instant    ifi   which 
19 


290      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

Maisie  fully  saw  —  saw  madness  and  desola- 
tion, saw  ruin  and  darkness  and  death.  "  I  've 
thought  of  him  often  since,  and  I  hoped  it 
was  with  him  —  with  him  —  "  Here,  in  her 
emotion,  it  failed  her,  the  breath  of  her  filial 
hope. 

But  Ida  got  it  out  of  her.  "  You  hoped, 
you  little  horror  —  ?" 

"That  it  was  he  who's  at  Dover;  that  it 
was  he  who  's  to  take  you.  I  mean  to  South 
Africa,"  Maisie  said  with  another  drop. 

Ida's  stupefaction,  on  this,  kept  her  silent 
unnaturally  long;  so  long  that  her  daughter 
could  not  only  wonder  what  was  coming,  but 
perfectly  measure  the  decline  of  every  symp- 
tom of  her  liberality.  She  loomed  there  in 
her  grandeur,  merely  dark  and  dumb;  her 
wrath  was  clearly  still,  as  it  had  always  been, 
a  thing  of  resource  and  variety.  What  Maisie 
least  expected  of  it  was,  by  this  law,  what 
now  occurred :  it  melted,  in  the  summer  twi- 
light, gradually  into  pity,  and  the  pity,  after 
a  little,  found  a  cadence  to  which  the  renewed 
click  of  her  purse  gave  an  accent.  She  had 
put  back  what  she  had  taken  out.  "You  're 
a  dreadful,  dismal,  deplorable  little  thing!" 
she  murmured ;  and  with  this  she  turned  her 
back  and  rustled  away  over  the  lawn. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      291 

After  she  had  disappeared  Maisie  dropped 
upon  the  bench  again  and  for  some  time,  in 
the  empty  garden  and  the  deeper  dusk,  sat 
and  stared  at  the  image  her  flight  had  still 
left  standing.  It  had  ceased  to  be  her  mother 
only,  in  the  strangest  way,  that  it  might  be- 
come her  father,  the  father  of  whose  wish 
that  she  were  dead  the  announcement  still 
lingered  in  the  air.  It  was  a  presence  with 
vague  edges  —  it  continued  to  front  her,  to 
cover  her;  but  what  reality  that  she  need 
reckon  with  did  it  represent  if  Mr.  Farange 
were,  on  his  side,  also  going  off — 'going  off 
to  America  with  the  Countess,  or  even  only 
to  Spa  ?  That  question  had,  from  the  house, 
a  sudden  gay  answer  in  the  great  roar  of  a 
gong,  and  at  the  same  moment  she  saw  Sir 
Claude  look  out  for  her  from  the  wide, 
lighted  doorway.  At  this  she  went  to  him, 
and  he  came  forward  and  met  her  on  the 
lawn.  For  a  minute  she  was  there  with 
him  in  silence  as,  just  before,  at  the  last, 
she  had  been  with  her  mother. 

"She's  gone?" 

"She's  gone." 

Nothing  more,  for  the  instant,  passed  be- 
tween them  but  to  move  together  to  the 
house,  where,  in  the  hall,  he  indulged  in 


292      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

one  of  those  sudden  pleasantries  with  which, 
to  the  delight  of  his  stepdaughter,  his 
native  animation  abounded.  "Will  Miss 
Farange  do  me  the  honor  to  accept  my 
arm  ? " 

There  was  nothing  in  all  her  days  that 
Miss  Farange  had  accepted  with  such  bliss 
—  a  bright,  rich  element  that  floated  them 
together  to  their  feast ;  before  they  reached 
which,  however,  she  uttered,  in  the  spirit  of 
a  glad  young  lady  taken  in  to  her  first  dinner, 
a  sociable  word  that  made  him  stop  short. 
"She  goes  to  South  Africa." 

"To  South  Africa?"  His  face  for  a 
moment  seemed  to  swing  for  a  jump;  the 
next  it  took  its  spring  into  the  extreme  of 
hilarity.  "Is  that  what  she  said?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite  distinctly.  For  the 
climate." 

Sir  Claude  was  now  looking  at  a  young 
woman  with  black  hair,  a  red  frock  and  a 
tiny  terrier  tucked  under  her  elbow :  she 
swept  past  them  on  her  way  to  the  dining- 
room,  leaving  an  impression  of  a  strong 
scent  which  mingled,  amid  the  clatter  of  the 
place,  with  the  hot  aroma  of  food.  He  had 
become  a  little  graver;  he  still  stopped  to 
talk.  "I  see  —  I  see."  Other  people 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      293 

brushed  by ;  he  was  not  too  grave  to  notice 
them.  "  Did  she  say  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  a  lot  more. " 

On  this  he  met  her  eyes  again  with  some 
intensity ;  but  he  only  repeated :  "  I  see  —  I 
see. " 

Maisie  had  still  her  own  vision,  she  brought 
out  "I  thought  she  was  going  to  give  me 
something." 

"What  kind  of  a  thing?" 

"  Some  money  that  she  took  out  of  her 
purse  and  then  put  back. " 

Sir  Claude's  amusement  reappeared.  "  She 
thought  better  of  it?  Dear  thrifty  soul! 
How  much  did  she  make  by  that  manoeuvre  ? " 

Maisie  considered.  "  I  did  n't  see.  It 
was  very  small." 

Sir  Claude  threw  back  his  head.  "Do 
you  mean  very  little?  Sixpence?  " 

Maisie  resented  this  almost  as  much  as  if, 
at  dinner,  she  were  already  bandying  jokes 
with  an  agreeable  neighbor.  "  It  may  have 
been  a  sovereign." 

"Or  even,"  Sir  Claude  suggested,  "a  ten- 
pound  note."  She  flushed  at  this  sudden 
picture  of  what  she  perhaps  had  lost,  and  he 
made  it  more  vivid  by  adding:  "Rolled  up 
in  a  tight  little  ball,  you  know  —  her  way  of 


294      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

treating  bank-notes  as  if  they  were  curl- 
papers !  "  Maisie's  flush  deepened  both  with 
the  immense  plausibility  of  this  and  with 
a  fresh  wave  of  the  consciousness  that  was 
always  there  to  remind  her  of  his  cleverness 

—  the  consciousness   of   how  immeasurably 
more,  after  all,  he  knew  about  mamma  than 
she.     She  had  lived  with  her  so  many  times 
without  discovering  the  material  of  her  curl- 
papers or  assisting  at  any  other  of  her  deal- 
ings with  bank-notes.     The  tight  little  ball 
had  at  any  rate  rolled  away  from  her  forever 

—  quite  like  one  of  the  other  balls  that  Ida's 
cue  used  to  send  flying.     Sir  Claude  gave 
her  his  arm  again,  and  by  the  time  she  was 
seated  at  the  table  she  had  perfectly  made 
up  her  mind  as  to  the  amount  of  the  sum 
she  had  forfeited.      Everything  about   her, 
however  —  the  crowded  room,  the  bedizened 
banquet,  the  savor  of  dishes,  the  drama  of 
figures  —  ministered  to  the  joy  of  life.     After 
dinner  she  smoked  with  her  friend  —  for  that 
was  exactly  what  she  felt   she  did  —  on  a 
porch,  a  kind  of  terrace,  where  the  red  tips 
of   cigars  and   the   light   dresses   of   ladies 
made,  under  the  happy  stars,  a  poetry  that 
was  almost  intoxicating.     They  talked   but 
little,  and  she  was  slightly  surprised  at  his 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      295 

asking  for  no  more  news  of  what  her  mother 
had  said ;  but  she  had  no  need  of  talk,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  without  it  her  sense  of 
everything  overflowed.  They  smoked  and 
smoked,  and  there  was  a  sweetness  in  her 
stepfather's  silence.  At  last  he  said:  "Let 
us  take  another  turn  —  but  you  must  go  to 
bed  soon.  Oh,  you  know,  we  're  going  to 
have  a  system  ! "  Their  turn  was  back  into 
the  garden,  along  the  dusky  paths  from  which 
they  could  see  the  black  masts  and  the  red 
lights  of  boats  and  hear  the  calls  and  cries 
that  evidently  had  to  do  with  happy  foreign 
travel ;  and  their  system  was  once  more  to 
get  on  beautifully  in  this  further  lounge 
without  a  definite  exchange.  Yet  he  finally 
spoke  —  he  broke  out  as  he  tossed  away  the 
match  from  which  he  had  taken  a  fresh  light. 
"  I  must  go  for  a  stroll ;  I  'm  in  a  fidget  —  I 
must  walk  it  off."  She  fell  in  with  this  as 
she  fell  in  with  everything;  on  which  he 
went  on  :  "  You  go  up  to  Miss  Ash  "  —  it  was 
the  name  they  had  started.  "  You  must  see 
she  's  not  in  mischief.  Can  you  find  your 
way  alone  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  've  been  up  and  down  seven 
times. "  She  positively  enjoyed  the  prospect 
of  an  eighth. 


296      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Still  they  didn't  separate;  they  stood 
smoking  together  under  the  stars.  Then  at 
last  Sir  Claude  produced  it.  "I'm  free  — 
I'm  free!" 

She  looked  up  at  him ;  it  was  the  very  spot 
on  which  a  couple  of  hours  before  she  had 
looked  up  at  her  mother.  "  You  're  free  — 
you're  free." 

"  To-morrow  we  go  to  France. "  He  spoke 
as  if  he  had  not  heard  her;  but  it  did  n't  pre- 
vent her  again  concurring. 

"  To-morrow  we  go  to  France. " 

Again  he  appeared  not  to  have  heard  her; 
and  after  a  moment  —  it  was  an  effect  evi- 
dently of  the  depth  of  his  reflections  and  the 
agitation  of  his  soul  —  he  also  spoke  as  if  he 
had  not  spoken  before.  "  I'm  free  —  I  'mfree." 

She  repeated  her  form  of  assent.  "  You  're 
free  —  you  're  free. " 

This  time  he  did  hear  her  and  fixed  her 
through  the  darkness  with  a  grave  face.  But 
he  said  nothing  more;  he  simply  stooped  a 
little  and  drew  her  to  him  —  simply  held 
her  a  little  and  kissed  her  good-night;  after 
which,  having  given  her  a  silent  push  up- 
stairs to  Miss  Ash,  he  turned  round  again  to 
the  black  masts  and  the  red  lights.  Maisie 
mounted  as  if  France  were  at  the  top. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      297 


XXII 

THE  next  day  it  seemed  to  her  at  the  bot- 
tom —  down  too  far  in  shuddering  plunges 
even  to  leave  her  a  sense,  on  the  Channel 
boat,  of  the  height  at  which  Sir  Claude  re- 
mained and  which  had  never,  in  every  way, 
been  so  great  as  when,  much  in  the  wet, 
though  in  the  angle  of  a  screen  of  canvas,  he 
sociably  sat  with  his  stepdaughter's  head  in 
his  lap  and  that  of  Mrs.  Beale's  housemaid 
fairly  pillowed  on  his  breast.  Maisie  was 
surprised  to  learn,  as  they  drew  into  port, 
that  they  had  had  a  lovely  passage,  but  this 
emotion  at  Boulogne  was  speedily  quenched 
in  others,  above  all  in  the  great  ecstasy  of  a 
larger  impression  of  life.  She  was  "  abroad, " 
and  she  gave  herself  up  to  it,  responded  to  it 
in  the  bright  air.  before  the  pink  houses, 
among  the  bare-legged  fishwives  and  the  red- 
legged  soldiers,  with  the  instant  certitude  of 
a  vocation.  Her  vocation  was  to  see  the 
world  and  to  thrill  with  relish  of  the  pic- 
ture; she  had  grown  older  in  five  minutes  and 
had,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  hotel, 
recognized  in  the  institutions  and  manners 
of  France  a  multitude  of  affinities  and  mes- 


298      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

sages.  Literally,  in  the  course  of  an  hour, 
she  found  her  initiation;  a  consciousness 
much  quickened  by  the  superior  part  that, 
as  soon  as  they  had  gobbled  down  a  French 
breakfast  —  which  was  indeed  a  high  note  in 
the  concert  —  she  observed  herself  to  play  to 
Susan  Ash.  Sir  Claude,  who  had  already 
bumped  against  people  he  knew  and  who, 
as  he  said,  had  business  and  letters,  sent  them 
out  together  for  a  walk  —  a  walk  in  which 
the  child  was  avenged,  so  far  as  poetic  jus- 
tice required,  not  only  for  the  loud  giggles 
that,  in  their  London  trudges,  used  to  break 
from  her  attendant,  but  for  all  the  years  of 
her  tendency  to  produce  socially  that  impres- 
sion of  an  excess  of  the  queer  something 
which  had  seemed  to  waver  so  widely  between 
innocence  and  guilt.  On  the  spot,  at  Bou- 
logne, though  there  might  have  been  excess 
there  was  at  least  no  wavering:  she  iden- 
tified, she  understood,  she  adored  and  took 
possession ;  feeling  herself  attuned  to  every- 
thing and  laying  her  hand,  right  and  left,  on 
what  had  simply  been  waiting  for  her.  She 
explained  to  Susan,  she  laughed  at  Susan, 
she  towered  over  Susan;  and  it  was  somehow 
Susan's  stupidity,  of  which  she  had  never 
yet  been  so  sure,  and  Susan's  bewilderment 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      299 

and  ignorance  and  antagonism,  that  gave  the 
liveliest  rebound  to  her  immediate  percep- 
tions and  adoptions.  The  place  and  the 
people  were  all  a  picture  together,  a  picture 
that,  when  they  went  down  to  the  wide  sands, 
shimmered,  in  a  thousand  tints,  with  the 
pretty  organization  of  the  plage,  with  the 
gayety  of  spectators  and  bathers,  with  that  of 
the  language  and  the  weather,  and  above  all 
with  that  of  our  young  lady's  unprecedented 
situation.  For  it  appeared  to  her  that  no 
one,  since  the  beginning  of  time,  could  have 
had  such  an  adventure  or,  in  an  hour,  so 
much  experience ;  as  a  sequel  to  which  she 
only  needed,  in  order  to  feel  with  conscious 
wonder  how  the  past  was  changed,  to  hear 
Susan,  inscrutably  aggravated,  express  a 
preference  for  the  Edgware  Road.  The  past 
was  so  changed  and  the  circle  it  had  formed 
already  so  overstepped  that  on  that  very 
afternoon,  in  the  course  of  another  walk,  she 
found  herself  inquiring  of  Sir  Claude  —  and 
without  a  single  scruple  —  if  he  were  pre- 
pared as  yet  to  name  the  moment  at  which 
they  should  start  for  Paris.  His  answer,  it 
must  be  said,  gave  her  the  least  little  chill. 

"Oh,  Paris,  my  dear  child —  I  don't  quite 
know  about  Paris ! " 


300      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

This  required  to  be  met,  but  it  was  much 
less  to  challenge  him  than  for  the  rich  joy 
of  her  first  discussion  of  the  details  of  a  tour 
that,  after  looking  at  him  an  instant,  she  re- 
plied: "Well,  isn't  that  the  real  thing,  the 
thing  that  when  one  does  come  abroad  — ?  " 
He  had  turned  grave  again,  and  she  merely 
threw  that  out :  it  was  a  way  of  doing  jus- 
tice to  the  seriousness  of  their  life.  She 
could  n't,  moreover,  be  so  much  older  since 
yesterday  without  reflecting  that  if  by  this 
time  she  probed  a  little  he  would  recog- 
nize that  she  had  done  enough  for  mere 
patience.  There  was  in  fact  something  in 
his  eyes  that  suddenly,  to  her  own,  made  her 
desertion  shabby.  Before  she  could  remedy 
this  he  had  answered  her  last  question,  an- 
swered it  in  the  way  that,  of  all  ways,  she 
had  least  expected.  "The  thing  it  doesn't 
do  not  to  do  ?  Certainly  —  Paris  is  charm- 
ing. But,  my  dear  fellow,  Paris  eats  your 
head  off.  I  mean  it 's  so  beastly  expensive. " 

That  note  gave  her  a  start ;  it  suddenly  let 
in  a  harder  light.  Were  they  poor,  then? 
—  that  is,  was  he  poor,  really  poor  beyond 
the  pleasantry  of  apollinaris  and  cold  beef? 
They  had  walked  to  the  end  of  the  long  jetty 
that  enclosed  the  harbor,  and  were  looking 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       301 

out  at  the  dangers  they  had  escaped,  the  gray 
horizon  that  was  England,  the  tumbled  sur- 
face of  the  sea  and  the  brown  smacks  that 
bobbed  upon  it.  Why  had  he  chosen  an  em- 
barrassed time  to  make  this  foreign  dash?  — 
unless  indeed  it  was  just  the  dash  economic, 
of  which  she  had  often  heard  and  on  which, 
after  another  look  at  the  gray  horizon  and  the 
bobbing  boats,  she  was  ready  to  turn  round 
with  elation.  She  replied  to  him  quite  in  his 
own  manner.  "  I  see  —  I  see."  She  smiled 
up  at  him.  "  Our  affairs  are  involved." 

"That's  it"  —  he  returned  her  smile. 
"Mine  are  not  quite  so  bad  as  yours;  for 
yours  are  really,  my  dear  man,  in  a  state  I 
can't  see  through  at  all.  But  mine  will 
do  —  for  a  mess." 

She  thought  this  over.  "  But  is  n't  France 
cheaper  than  England  ? "  England,  over 
there  in  the  thickening  gloom,  looked  just 
then  remarkably  dear. 

"  I  dare  say  —  some  parts. " 
"Then  can't  we  live  in  those  parts? " 
There  was  something  that  for  a  moment, 
in  satisfaction  of  this,  he  had  the  air  of  being 
about  to  say  and  yet  not  saying.     What  he 
presently  said  was :  "  This  very  place  is  one 
of  them." 


302      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"Then  we  shall  live  here?" 

He  did  n't  treat  it  quite  as  definitely  as  she 
liked.  "  Since  we  've  come  to  save  money ! " 

This  made  her  press  him  more.  "  How 
long  shall  we  stay  ?  " 

"Oh,  three  or  four  days." 

It  took  her  breath  away.  "  You  can  save 
money  in  that  time  ?  " 

He  burst  out  laughing,  starting  to  walk 
again  and  taking  her  under  his  arm.  He 
confessed  to  her  on  the  way  that  she  too  had 
put  a  finger  on  the  weakest  of  all  his  weak- 
nesses, the  fact,  of  which  he  was  perfectly 
aware,  that  he  probably  might  have  lived 
within  his  means  if  he  had  never  done  any- 
thing for  thrift.  "It's  the  happy  thoughts 
that  do  it,"  he  said;  "there's  nothing  so 
ruinous  as  putting  in  a  cheap  week. "  Maisie 
heard  afresh,  among  the  pleasant  sounds  of 
the  closing  day,  that  steel  click  of  Ida's 
change  of  mind ;  she  thought  of  the  ten-pound 
note  it  would  have  been  delightful  at  this 
juncture  to  produce  for  her  companion's  en- 
couragement. But  the  idea  was  dissipated 
by  his  saying  irrelevantly,  in  the  presence  of 
the  next  thing  they  stopped  to  admire :  "  We 
shall  stay  till  she  arrives." 

She  turned  upon  him.     "  Mrs.  Beale  ?  " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      303 

"Mrs.  Wix.  I  've  had  a  wire/'  he  went 
on.  "  She  has  seen  your  mother." 

"  Seen  mamma  ?  "  Maisie  stared.  "  Where 
in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Apparently  in  London.  They  've  been 
together." 

For  an  instant  this  looked  ominous  —  a 
fear  came  into  her  eyes.  "Then  she  has  n't 
gone?" 

"  Your  mother  ?  —  to  South  Africa  ?  I  give 
it  up,  dear  boy,"  Sir  Claude  said;  and  she 
seemed  literally  to  see  him  give  it  up  as  he 
stood  there  and  with  a  kind  of  absent  gaze 
—  absent,  that  is,  from  her  affairs  —  followed 
the  fine  stride  and  shining  limbs  of  a  young 
fishwife  who  had  just  waded  out  of  the  sea 
with  her  basketful  of  shrimps.  His  thought 
came  back  to  her  sooner  than  his  eyes. 
"  But  I  dare  say  it 's  all  right.  She  would  n't 
come  if  it  was  n't  —  poor  old  thing :  she  knows 
rather  well  what  she  's  about." 

This  was  so  reassuring  that  Maisie,  after 
turning  it  over,  could  make  it  fit  into  her 
dream.  "  \Vell,  what  is  she  about  ?  " 

He  stopped  looking,  at  last,  at  the  fishwife; 
he  met  his  companion's  inquiry.  "Oh,  you 
know !  "  There  was  something  in  the  way 
he  said  it  that  made  between  them  more  of 


304      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

an  equality  than  she  had  yet  imagined ;  but  it 
had  also  more  the  effect  of  raising  her  up  than 
of  letting  him  down,  and  what  it  did  with  her 
was  shown  by  the  sound  of  her  assent. 

"Yes — I  know!"  What  she  knew,  what 
she  could  know,  is  by  this  time  no  secret 
to  us:  it  grew  and  grew,  at  any  rate,  the 
rest  of  that  day,  in  the  air  of  what  he  took 
for  granted.  It  was  better  he  should  do 
that  than  attempt  to  test  her  knowledge; 
but  there,  at  the  worst,  was  the  gist  of  the 
matter:  it  was  open  between  them  at  last 
that  their  great  change,  as,  speaking  as  if  it 
had  already  lasted  weeks,  Maisie  called  it, 
was  somehow  built  up  round  Mrs.  Wix. 
Before  she  went  to  bed  that  night  she  knew, 
further,  that  Sir  Claude,  since,  as  he  called 
it,  they  had  been  on  the  rush,  had  received 
more  telegrams  than  one.  But  they  sepa- 
rated again  without  speaking  of  Mrs.  Beale. 

Oh,  what  a  crossing  for  the  straighteners 
and  the  old  brown  dress  —  which  latter 
appurtenance  the  child  saw  thriftily  revived 
for  the  possible  disasters  of  travel !  The 
wind  got  up  in  the  night,  and  from  her  little 
room  at  the  inn  Maisie  could  hear  the  noise 
of  the  sea.  The  next  day  it  was  raining  and 
everything  different :  this  was  the  case  even 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      305 

with  Susan  Ash,  who  positively  crowed  over 
the  bad  weather,  partly,  it  seemed,  for  relish 
of  the  time  their  visitor  would  have  in  the 
boat,  and  partly  to  point  the  moral  of  the 
folly  of  coming  to  such  holes.  In  the  wet, 
with  Sir  Claude,  Maisie  went  to  the  Folke- 
stone packet,  on  the  arrival  of  which,  with 
many  signs  of  the  fray,  he  made  her  wait 
under  an  umbrella  on  the  quay;  whence, 
almost  before  the  vessel  touched,  he  was  to 
be  descried,  in  quest  of  their  friend,  wrig- 
gling —  that  had  been  his  word  —  through  the 
invalids  massed  upon  the  deck.  It  was  long 
till  he  reappeared  —  it  was  not  indeed  till 
every  one  had  landed;  when  he  presented 
the  object  of  his  benevolence  in  a  light  that 
Maisie  scarce  knew  whether  to  hold  the 
depth  of  prostration  or  the  climax  of  success. 
The  lady  on  his  arm,  still  bent  beneath  her 
late  ordeal,  was  muffled  in  such  draperies  as 
had  never  contributed  so  much  support  to 
so  much  misery.  At  the  hotel,  an  hour 
later,  this  ambiguity  dropped :  assisting  Mrs. 
Wix  in  private  to  refresh  and  reinvest  her- 
self, Maisie  heard  from  her  in  detail  how 
little  she  could  have  achieved  if  Sir  Claude 
hadn't  put  it  in  her  power.  It  was  a  phrase 
that,  in  her  room,  she  repeated  in  connec- 

20 


306      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

tions  indescribable:  he  had  put  it  in  her 
power  to  have  "changes,"  as  she  said,  of  the 
most  intimate  order,  adapted  to  climates  and 
occasions  so  various  as  to  foreshadow  in  them- 
selves the  stages  of  a  vast  itinerary.  Cheap 
weeks  would  of  course  be  in  their  place  after 
so  much  money  spent  on  a  governess ;  sums 
not  grudged,  however,  by  this  lady's  pupil 
even  on  her  feeling  her  own  appearance  give 
rise,  through  the  straighteners,  to  an  atten- 
tion perceptibly  mystified.  Sir  Claude,  in 
truth,  had  had  less  time  to  devote  to  it  than 
to  Mrs.  Wix's;  and  moreover  she  would 
rather  be  in  her  own  shoes  than  in  her 
friend's  creaking  new  ones  in  the  event  of  an 
encounter  with  Mrs.  Beale.  Maisie  was  too 
lost  in  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Beale's  judgment  of 
so  much  newness  to  pass  any  judgment  her- 
self. Besides,  after  much  luncheon  and 
many  endearments,  the  question  took  quite 
another  turn,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pleasure 
of  the  child's  quick  view  that  there  were 
other  eyes  than  Susan  Ash's  to  open  to  what 
she  could  show.  She  could  n't  show  much, 
alas,  till  it  stopped  raining,  which  it  declined 
to  do  that  day;  but  this  had  only  the  effect 
of  leaving  more  time  for  Mrs.  Wix's  own 
demonstration.  It  came  as  they  sat  in  the 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      307 

little  white  and  gold  salon  which  Maisie 
thought  the  loveliest  place  she  had  ever  seen 
except  perhaps  the  apartment  of  the  Coun- 
tess ;  it  came  while  the  hard  summer  storm 
lashed  the  windows  and  blew  in  such  a  chill 
that  Sir  Claude,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  a  cigarette  in  his  teeth,  fidgeting,  frown- 
ing, looking  out  and  turning  back,  ended  by 
causing  a  smoky  little  fire  to  be  made  in  the 
dressy  little  chimney.  It  came  in  spite  of 
something  that  could  only  be  named  his  air 
of  wishing  to  put  it  off;  an  air  that  had 
served  him  —  oh,  as  all  his  airs  served  him  !  — 
to  the  extent  of  his  having  for  a  couple  of 
hours  confined  the  conversation  to  gratuitous 
jokes  and  generalities,  kept  it  on  the  level 
of  the  little  empty  coffee-cups  and  petits 
verres  (Mrs.  Wix  had  had  two  of  each !)  that 
struck  Maisie,  through  the  fumes  of  the 
French  fire  and  the  English  tobacco,  as  a 
token,  more  than  ever,  that  they  were 
launched.  She  felt  now,  in  close  quarters 
and  as  clearly  as  if  Mrs.  Wix  had  told  her, 
that  what  this  lady  had  come  over  for  was 
not  merely  to  be  chaffed  and  to  hear  her 
pupil  chaffed  —  not  even  to  hear  Sir  Claude, 
who  knew  French  in  perfection,  imitate  the 
strange  sounds  emitted  by  the  English  folk 


3o8      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

at  the  hotel.  It  was  perhaps  half  an  effect 
of  her  present  renovation  —  as  if  her  clothes 
had  been  somebody's  else:  she  had  at  any 
rate  never  produced  such  an  impression  of 
high  color,  of  a  redness  really  so  vivid  as  to 
be  feverish.  Her  heart  was  not  at  all  in 
the  gossip  about  Boulogne;  and  if  her  com- 
plexion was  partly  the  result  of  the  cttjetiner 
and  the  petits  verres,  it  was  also  the  brave 
signal  of  what  she  was  there  to  say.  Maisie 
knew,  when  this  did  come,  how  anxiously  it 
had  been  awaited  by  the  youngest  member 
of  the  party.  "Her  ladyship  packed  me  off 
—  she  almost  put  me  into  the  cab ! "  That 
was  what  Mrs.  Wix  at  last  brought  out. 


XXIII 

SIR  CLAUDE  was  stationed  at  the  window; 
he  didn't  so  much  as  turn  round;  and  it  was 
left  to  Maisie  to  take  up  the  remark.  "  Do 
you  mean  you  went  to  see  her  yesterday?  " 

"  She  came  to  see  me;  she  knocked  at  my 
shabby  door;  she  mounted  my  squalid  stair. 
She  told  me  she  had  seen  you  at  Folkestone." 

Maisie  wondered.  "She  went  back  that 
evening  ? " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      309 

"  No ;  yesterday  morning.  She  drove  to 
me  straight  from  the  station.  It  was  remark- 
able. If  I  had  a  job  to  get  off  she  did  noth- 
ing to  make  it  worse  —  she  did  a  great  deal 
to  make  it  better."  Mrs.  Wix  hung  fire, 
though  the  flame  in  her  face  burned  brighter; 
then  she  became  capable  of  saying:  "Her 
ladyship's  kind!  She  did  what  I  didn't 
expect." 

Maisie,  on  this,  looked  straight  at  her 
stepfather's  back;  it  might  well  have  been 
for  her,  at  that  hour,  a  monument  of  her 
ladyship's  kindness.  It  remained  as  such, 
at  all  events,  monumentally  still,  and  for  a 
time  that  permitted  the  child  to  ask  of  their 
companion :  "  Did  she  really  help  you?  " 

"Most  practically."  Again  Mrs.  Wix 
paused ;  again  she  quite  vibrated.  "  She 
gave  me  a  ten-pound  note. " 

At  that,  still  looking  out,  Sir  Claude,  in 
the  window,  laughed  loud.  "  So,  you  see, 
Maisie,  we  've  not  quite  lost  it !  " 

"Oh,  no!"  Maisie  responded.  "Isn't 
that  too  charming?"  She  smiled  at  Mrs. 
Wix.  "We  know  all  about  it."  Then,  on 
her  friend's  showing  such  blankness  as  was 
compatible  with  such  a  flush,  she  pursued: 
"  She  does  want  me  to  have  you  ? " 


310      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Mrs.  Wix  showed  a  final  timidity,  which, 
however,  while  Sir  Claude  drummed  on  the 
window  pane,  she  presently  surmounted. 
It  came  to  Maisie  that  in  spite  of  his  drum- 
ming and  of  his  not  turning  round  he  was 
really  so  much  interested  as  to  leave  himself, 
in  a  manner,  in  her  hands ;  which,  somehow, 
suddenly  seemed  to  her  a  greater  proof  than 
he  could  have  given  by  interfering.  "  She 
wants  me  to  have  you!  "  Mrs.  Wix  rang  out. 

Maisie  answered  this  bang  at  Sir  Claude. 
"Then  that 's  nice  for  all  of  us." 

Of  course  it  was,  his  continued  silence 
sufficiently  admitted,  while  Mrs.  Wix  rose 
from  her  chair  and,  as  if  to  take  more  of  a 
stand,  placed  herself,  not  without  majesty, 
before  the  fire.  The  incongruity  of  her 
smartness,  the  circumference  of  her  stiff 
frock  presented  her  as  really  more  ready  for 
Paris  than  any  of  them.  She  also  gazed  hard 
at  Sir  Claude's  back.  "Your  wife  was  dif- 
ferent from  anything  she  had  ever  shown  me. 
She  recognizes  certain  proprieties." 

"  Which  ?  —  do  you  happen  to  remember  ?  " 
Sir  Claude  asked. 

Mrs.  Wix's  reply  was  prompt.  "The  im- 
portance for  Maisie  of  a  gentlewoman  —  of 
some  one  who  is  not  —  well,  so  bad !  She 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      311 

objects  to  a  mere  maid,  and  I  don't  in  the 
least  mind  telling  you  what  she  wants  me  to 
do."  One  thing  was  clear — Mrs.  Wix  was 
now  bold  enough  for  anything.  "  She  wants 
me  to  persuade  you  to  get  rid  of  the  person 
from  Mrs.  Beale's."  Maisie  waited  for  Sir 
Claude  to  pronounce  on  this ;  then  she  could 
only  understand  that  he,  on  his  side,  waited, 
and  she  felt  particularly  full  of  common  sense 
as  she  met  her  responsibility.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
want  Susan  with  you! "  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Wix. 

Sir  Claude,  always  from  the  window, 
approved.  "  That 's  quite  simple.  I'll  take 
her  back." 

Mrs.  Wix  gave  a  positive  jump;  Maisie 
caught  her  look  of  alarm.  " '  Take  '  her  ? 
You  don't  mean  go  over  on  purpose? " 

Sir  Claude  said  nothing  for  a  moment; 
after  which,  "Why  shouldn't  I  leave  you 
here?"  he  inquired. 

Maisie,  at  this,  sprang  up.  "  Oh,  do,  oh, 
do,  oh,  do ! "  The  next  moment  she  was 
interlaced  with  Mrs.  Wix,  and  the  two,  on 
the  hearth-rug,  their  eyes  in  each  other's 
eyes,  considered  the  plan  with  intensity. 
Maisie  then  perceived  the  difference  of  what 
they  saw  in  it.  "  She  can  surely  go  back 


3i2      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

alone ;   why  should  you  put  yourself  out  ?  " 
Mrs.  Wix  demanded. 

"  Oh,  she  's  an  idiot  —  she  's  incapable.  If 
anything  should  happen  to  her  it  would  be 
awkward ;  it  was  I  who  brought  her  — •  with- 
out her  asking.  If  I  turn  her  away  I  ought 
with  my  own  hand  to  place  her  exactly 
where  I  found  her." 

Mrs.  Wix's  face  appealed  to  Maisie  on 
such  folly,  and  her  manner,  as  directed  to 
their  companion,  had,  to  her  pupil's  surprise, 
an  unprecedented  sharpness.  "Dear  Sir 
Claude,  I  think  you  're  perverse.  Pay  her 
fare  and  give  her  a  sovereign.  She  has  had 
an  experience  that  she  never  dreamed  of  and 
that  will  be  an  advantage  to  her  through  life., 
If  she  goes  wrong  on  the  way  it  will  be  sim- 
ply because  she  wants  to,  and,  with  her 
expenses  and  her  remuneration  —  make  it 
even  what  you  like!  —  you  will  have  treated 
her  as  handsomely  as  you  always  treat  every 
one." 

This  was  a  new  tone  —  as  new  as  Mrs. 
Wix's  cap;  and  it  could  strike  a  perceptive 
person  as  the  upshot  of  a  relation  that  had 
taken  on  a  new  character.  It  brought  out, 
for  Maisie,  how  much  more  even  than  she 
had  guessed  her  friends  were  fighting  side 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      313 

by  side.  At  the  same  time  it  needed  so 
definite  a  justification  that,  as  Sir  Claude 
now,  at  last,  did  face  them,  she  at  first  sup- 
posed it  in  resentment  of  excessive  familiar- 
ity. She  was  therefore  yet  more  puzzled  to 
see  him  show  the  whole  of  his  serene  beauty, 
as  well  as  an  equal  interest  in  a  matter  quite 
distinct  from  any  freedom  but  her  ladyship's. 
"Did  my  wife  come  alone? "  He  could  ask 
even  that  good-humoredly. 

"When  she  called  on  me?"  Mrs.  Wix 
was  red  now;  his  good  humor  could  n't 
keep  down  her  color,  which,  for  a  minute, 
glowed  there  like  her  ugly  honesty.  "No 
—  there  was  some  one  in  the  cab. "  The 
only  attenuation  she  could  think  of  was 
after  a  minute  to  add:  "But  they  didn't 
come  up." 

Sir  Claude  broke  into  a  laugh  —  Maisie 
herself  could  guess  what  it  was  at :  while  he 
now  walked  about,  still  laughing,  and  at  the 
fireplace  gave  a  gay  kick  to  a  displaced  log, 
she  felt  more  vague  about  almost  everything 
than  about  the  drollery  of  such  a  "  they ! " 
She  in  fact  could  scarce  have  told  you  if  it 
was  to  deepen  or  to  cover  the  joke  that  she 
bethought  herself  to  remark:  "Perhaps  it 
was  her  maid." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Mrs.  Wix  gave  her  a  look  that,  at  any 
rate,  deprecated  the  wrong  tone.  "It  was 
not  her  maid." 

"  Do  you  mean  there  are,  this  time,  two  ?  " 
Sir  Claude  asked  as  if  he  had  not  heard. 

"  Two  maids  ?  "  Maisie  went  on  as  if  she 
might  assume  he  had. 

The  reproach  of  the  straighteners  dark- 
ened; but  Sir  Claude  cut  across  it  with  a 
sudden  "  See  here  —  what  do  you  mean  ? 
And  what  do  you  suppose  she  meant  ? " 

Mrs.  Wix  let  him  for  a  moment  in  silence 
understand  that  the  answer  to  his  question, 
if  he  didn't  take  care,  might  give  him  more 
than  he  wanted.  It  was  as  if,  with  this 
scruple,  she  measured  and  adjusted  all  that 
she  gave  him  in  at  last  saying :  "  What  she 
meant  was  to  make  me  know  that  you  're 
definitely  free.  To  have  that  straight  from 
her  was  a  joy  I,  of  course,  had  n't  hoped  for: 
it  made  the  assurance,  and  my  delight  at  it, 
a  thing  I  really  proceed  upon.  You  already 
know  I  would  have  started  even  if  she  had  n't 
pressed  me ;  you  already  know  what,  so  long, 
we  have  been  looking  for  and  what,  as  soon 
as  she  told  me  of  her  step  taken  at  Folke- 
stone, I  recognized  with  rapture  that  we 
have.  It  's  your  freedom  that  makes  me 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      315 

right  "  —  she  fairly  bristled  with  her  logic. 
"But  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  it 's  her 
action  that  makes  me  happy!  " 

"Her  action?"  Sir  Claude  echoed. 
"  Why,  my  dear  woman,  her  action  is  just  a 
heinous  crime.  It  happens  to  satisfy  our 
sympathies  in  a  way  that's  quite  delicious; 
but  that  doesn't  in  the  least  alter  the  fact 
that  it 's  the  most  abominable  thing  ever 
done.  She  has  chucked  our  friend  here 
overboard  not  a  bit  less  than  if  she  had 
shoved  her,  shrieking  and  pleading,  out  of 
that  window  and  down  two  floors  upon  the 
paving-stones." 

Maisie  surveyed  serenely  the  parties  to  the 
discussion.  "  Oh,  your  friend  here,  dear  Sir 
Claude,  doesn't  plead  and  shriek!  " 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "Never. 
Never.  That's  one  —  only  one,  but  charm- 
ing so  far  as  it  goes  —  of  about  a  hundred 
things  we  love  her  for."  Then  he  pursued 
to  Mrs.  Wix:  "What  I  can't  for  the  life  of 
me  make  out  is  what  Ida  is  really  up  to,  what 
game  she  was  playing  in  turning  to  you  with 
that  cursed  cheek  after  the  beastly  way  she 
has  used  you.  Where  —  to  explain  her  at  all 
—  does  she  fancy  she  can  presently,  when 
we  least  expect  it,  take  it  out  of  us? " 


3i6      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

"She  doesn't  fancy  anything  nor  want 
anything  out  of  any  one.  Her  cursed 
cheek,  as  you  call  it,  is  the  best  thing  I  've 
ever  seen  in  her.  I  don't  care  a  fig  for  the 
beastly  way  she  used  me  —  I  forgive  it  all  a 
thousand  times  over ! "  Mrs.  Wix  raised 
her  voice  as  she  had  never  raised  it;  she 
quite  triumphed  in  her  lucidity.  "  I  under- 
stand her  —  I  almost  admire  her !  "  she 
proclaimed.  She  spoke  as  if  this  might 
practically  suffice;  yet  in  charity  to  fainter 
lights  she  threw  out  an  explanation.  "As 
I  've  said,  she  was  different;  upon  my  word 
I  would  n't  have  known  her.  She  had  a 
glimmering  —  she  had  an  instinct :  they 
brought  her.  It  was  a  kind  of  happy 
thought,  and  if  you  could  n't  have  supposed 
she  would  ever  have  had  such  a  thing,  why, 
of  course,  I  quite  agree  with  you.  But  she 
did  have  it.  There ! " 

Maisie  could  see  that,  from  what  it  with 
liveliness  lacked,  this  demonstration  gathered 
a  certain  something  that  might  almost  have 
exasperated.  But  as  she  had  often  watched 
Sir  Claude  in  apprehension  of  displeasure 
that  did  n't  come,  so  now,  instead  of  his 
saying  "  Oh,  hell !  "  as  her  father  used,  she 
observed  him  only  to  take  refuge  in  a  ques- 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      317 

tion  that,  at  the  worst,  was  abrupt.  "  Who 
is  it  this  time,  do  you  know  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  tried  blind  dignity.  "Who  is 
what,  Sir  Claude  ?  " 

"The  man  who  stands  the  cabs.  Who 
was  in  the  one  that  waited  at  your  door  ? " 

At  this  challenge  she  faltered  so  long  that 
it  occurred  to  Maisie' s  conscience  to  give 
her  a  hand.  "  It  was  n't  the  Captain." 

Her  good  intention,  however,  only  changed 
her  old  friend's  scruple  to  a  more  ambiguous 
stare ;  besides,  of  course,  making  Sir  Claude 
go  off.  Mrs.  Wix  fairly  appealed  to  him. 
"Must  I  really  tell  you?" 

His  amusement  continued.  "Did  she 
make  you  promise  not  to  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  at  him  still  harder.  "  I 
mean  —  before  Maisie. " 

Sir  Claude  laughed  again.  "Why,  she 
can't  hurt  him  ! " 

Maisie  felt  herself,  as  it  passed,  brushed 
by  the  light  humor  of  this.  "Yes,  I  can't 
hurt  him ! " 

The  straighteners  again  roofed  her  over; 
after  which  they  seemed  to  crack  with  the 
explosion  of  their  wearer's  honesty.  Amid 
the  flying  splinters  Mrs.  Wix  produced  a 
name.  "Mr.  Tischbein." 


318      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

There  was  for  an  instant  a  silence  that, 
under  Sir  Claude's  influence  and  while  he 
and  Maisie  looked  at  each  other,  suddenly 
pretended  to  be  that  of  gravity.  "We  don't 
know  Mr.  Tischbein  —  do  we,  dear  ?  " 

Maisie  gave  the  point  all  needful  thought. 
"No  — not  Mr.  Tischbein." 

It  was  a  passage  that  worked  visibly  on 
their  friend.  "You  must  excuse  me,  Sir 
Claude,"  she  said  with  an  austerity  of  which 
the  note  was  real,  "  if  I  thank  God  to  your 
face  that  he  has  in  his  mercy  —  I  mean  his 
mercy  to  our  charge  —  allowed  me  to  achieve 
this  act."  She  gave  out  a  long  puff  of  pain. 
"It  was  time!"  Then  as  if  still  more  to 
point  the  moral :  "  I  said  just  now  I  under- 
stood your  wife.  I  said  just  now  I  admired 
her.  I  stand  to  it:  I  did  both  of  those 
things  when  I  saw  how  even  she,  poor  thing, 
saw.  If  you  want  the  dots  on  the  i's  you 
shall  have  them.  What  she  came  to  me  for, 
in  spite  of  everything,  was  that  I  'm  just 
—  "  she  quavered  it  out  —  "  well,  just  clean  ! 
What  she  saw  for  her  daughter  was  that 
there  must  at  last  be  a  decent  person ! " 

Maisie  was  quick  enough  to  jump  a  little 
at  the  sound  of  this  implication  that  such 
a  person  was  what  Sir  Claude  was  not;  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      319 

next  instant,  however,  she  more  profoundly 
guessed  against  whom  the  discrimination 
was  made-  She  was  therefore  left  the  more 
surprised  at  the  complete  candor  with  which 
he  embraced  the  worst.  "If  she  's  bent  on 
decent  persons,  why  has  she  given  her  to  me  ? 
You  don't  call  me  a  decent  person,  and  I  '11 
do  Ida  the  justice  that  she  never  did.  I 
think  I  'm  as  indecent  as  any  one,  and  that 
there  's  nothing  in  my  behavior  that  makes 
my  wife's  surrender  a  bit  less  ignoble!" 

"Don't  speak  of  your  behavior,"  Mrs.  Wix 
cried;  "don't  say  such  horrible  things: 
they  're  false  and  they  're  wicked  and  I  for- 
bid you  !  It  's  to  keep  you  decent  that  I  'm 
here  and  that  I  've  done  everything  I  have 
done:  it  's  to  save  you  —  I  won't  say  from 
yourself,  because  in  yourself  you  're  beauti- 
ful and  good !  It 's  to  save  you  from  the 
worst  person  of  all;  I  haven't,  after  all, 
come  over  to  be  afraid  to  speak  of  her ! 
That 's  the  person  in  whose  place  her  ladyship 
wants  such  a  person  as  even  me;  and  if  she 
thought  herself,  as  she  as  good  as  told  me, 
not  fit  for  Maisie's  company,  it 's  not,  as  you 
may  well  suppose,  that  she  may  make  room 
for  Mrs.  Beale !  " 

Maisie  watched  his  face   as  it  took  this 


320      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

outbreak,  and  the  most  she  saw  in  it  was 
that  it  turned  a  little  white.  That  indeed 
made  him  look,  as  Susan  Ash  would  have 
said,  queer,  and  it  was  perhaps  a  part  of  the 
queerness  that  he  intensely  smiled.  "  You  're 
too  hard  on  Mrs.  Beale.  She  has  great 
merits  of  her  own." 

Mrs.  Wix,  at  this,  instead  of  immediately 
replying,  did  what  Sir  Claude  had  been  doing 
before :  she  moved  across  to  the  window  and 
stared  a  while  into  the  storm.  There  was 
for  a  minute,  to  Maisie' s  sense,  a  hush  that 
resounded  with  wind  and  rain.  Sir  Claude, 
in  spite  of  these  things,  glanced  about  for 
his  hat ;  on  which  Maisie  spied  it  first  and, 
making  a  dash  for  it,  held  it  out  to  him. 
He  took  it  with  the  gleam  of  a  "Thank  you  " 
in  his  face,  but  as  he  did  so  something 
moved  her  still  to  hold  the  other  side  of  the 
brim ;  so  that  united  by  their  grasp  of  this 
object  they  stood  some  seconds  looking 
many  things  at  each  other.  By  this  time 
Mrs.  Wix  had  fronted  them.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me,"  she  demanded,  "that  you  are 
going  back  ? " 

"  To  Mrs.  Beale  ?  "  Maisie  surrendered  his 
hat,  and  there  was  something  that  touched 
her  in  the  embarrassed,  almost  humiliated 


WHAT   MAISIE^KNEW      321 

way  their  companion's  challenge  made  him 
turn  it  round  and  round.  She  had  seen 
people  do  that  who,  she  was  sure,  did  noth- 
ing else  that  Sir  Claude  did.  "  I  can't  just 
say,  my  dear  thing.  We'll  see  about  it  — 
we  '11  talk  of  it  to-morrow.  Meantime  I 
must  get  some  air." 

Mrs.  Wix,  with  her  back  to  the  window, 
threw  up  her  head  to  a  height  that  still,  for 
a  moment,  had  the  effect  of  detaining  him. 
"All  the  air  in  France,  Sir  Claude,  won't, 
I  think,  give  you  the  courage  to  deny  that 
you  're  simply  afraid  of  her ! " 

Oh,  this  time  he  did  look  queer;  Maisie 
had  no  need  of  Susan's  vocabulary  to  note 
it !  It  would  have  come  to  her  of  itself  as, 
with  his  hand  on  the  door,  he  turned  his 
eyes  from  his  stepdaughter  to  her  governess 
and  then  back  again.  Resting  on  Maisie' s, 
though  for  ever  so  short  a  time,  there  was 
something  they  gave  up  to  her  and  tried  to 
explain.  His  lips,  however,  explained  noth- 
ing ;  they  only  completed  his  collapse.  "  Yes. 
I'm  simply  afraid  of  her!"  He  opened 
the  door  and  passed  out. 

It  brought  back  to  Maisie  his  confession 
of  fear  of  her  mother;  it  made  her  step- 
mother then  the  second  lady  about  whom  he 


21 


322      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

failed  of  the  particular  virtue  that  was  sup- 
posed most  to  mark  a  gentleman.  In  fact 
there  were  three  of  them  if  she  counted  in 
Mrs.  Wix,  before  whom  he  had  undeniably 
quailed.  Well,  his  want  of  valor  was  but  a 
deeper  appeal  to  her  tenderness.  To  thrill 
with  response  to  it  she  had  only  to  remember 
all  the  ladies  she  herself  had,  as  they  called 
it,  funked. 


XXIV 

IT  continued  to  rain  so  hard  that  her  fond 
private  calculation  of  explaining  the  Con- 
tinent to  their  visitor  had  to  contain  a  pro- 
viso for  some  adequate  treatment  of  the 
weather.  At  the  table  d'hote  that  evening 
she  threw  out  a  variety  of  lights :  this  was 
the  second  ceremony  of  the  sort  she  had  sat 
through,  and  she  would  have  neglected  her 
privilege  and  dishonored  her  vocabulary  — 
which  indeed  consisted  mainly  of  the  names 
of  dishes  —  if  she  had  not  been  proportion- 
ately ready  to  dazzle  with  interpretations. 
Preoccupied  and  overawed,  Mrs.  Wix  was 
comparatively  dim :  she  accepted  her  pupil's 
version  of  the  mysteries  of  the  menu  in  a 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      323 

manner  that  might  have  struck  the  child  as 
the  depression  of  a  credulity  conscious  not 
so  much  of  its  needs  as  of  its  dimensions. 
Maisie  was  soon  enough  —  though  it  scarce 
happened  before  bedtime  —  confronted  again 
with  the  different  sort  of  prospectus  for 
which  she  reserved  her  criticism.  They  re- 
mounted together  to  their  sitting-room  while 
Sir  Claude,  who  said  he  would  join  them 
later,  remained  below  to  smoke  and  to  con- 
verse with  the  old  acquaintances  that  he  met 
wherever  he  turned.  He  had  offered  his 
companions,  for  coffee,  the  enjoyment  of  the 
salon  de  lecture ;  but  Mrs.  Wix  had  replied 
promptly,  and  with  something  of  an  air,  that 
it  struck  her  their  own  apartments  supplied 
them  every  convenience.  They  supplied 
the  good  lady  herself,  Maisie  could  immedi- 
ately observe,  not  only  that  of  this  rather 
grand  reference  —  which,  already  emulous, 
so  far  as  it  went,  of  her  pupil,  she  made  as  if 
she  had  spent  her  life  in  salons ;  but  that  of 
a  lean  French  sofa  where  she  could  sit  and 
stare  at  the  faint  French  lamp  (in  default  of 
the  French  clock  that  had  stopped)  as  if  for 
some  account  of  the  time  Sir  Claude  would 
so  markedly  interpose.  Her  demeanor  ac- 
cused him  so  directly  of  hovering  beyond 


324      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

her  reach  that  Maisie  sought  to  divert  her  by 
a  report  of  Susan's  quaint  attitude  toward 
what  they  had  talked  of  after  lunch.  Maisie 
had  mentioned  to  the  young  woman,  for 
sympathy's  sake,  the  plan  for  her  relief ;  but 
her  disapproval  of  alien  ways  appeared, 
strange  to  say,  only  to  prompt  her  to  hug 
her  gloom ;  so  that,  between  Mrs.  Wix's  ef- 
fect of  displacing  her  and  the  visible  stiffen- 
ing of  her  back,  the  child  had  the  sense  of  a 
double  office,  an  enlarged  play  for  pacific 
powers. 

These  powers  played  to  no  great  purpose, 
it  was  true,  in  keeping  before  Mrs.  Wix  the 
vision  of  Sir  Claude's  perversity,  which  hung 
there  in  the  pauses  of  talk  and  which  he 
himself,  after  unmistakable  delays,  finally 
made  quite  lurid  by  bursting  in  —  it  was  near 
ten  o'clock  —  with  an  object  held  up  in  his 
hand.  She  knew  before  he  spoke  what  it 
was ;  she  knew  at  least  from  the  underlying 
sense  of  all  that,  since  the  hour  spent  after 
the  Exhibition  with  her  father,  had  not 
sprung  up  to  reinstate  Mr.  Farange  —  she 
knew  it  meant  a  triumph  for  Mrs.  Beale. 
The  mere  present  sight  of  Sir  Claude's  face 
caused  her,  on  the  spot,  to  drop  straight 
through  her  last  impression  of  Mr.  Farange  a 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       325 

plummet  that  reached  still  deeper  down  than 
the  security  of  these  days  of  flight.  She 
had  wrapped  that  impression  in  silence  —  a 
silence  that  had  parted  with  half  its  veil  to 
cover  also,  from  the  hour  of  Sir  Claude's  ad- 
vent, the  image  of  Mr.  Farange's  wife.  But 
as  the  object  in  Sir  Claude's  hand  revealed 
itself  as  a  letter  which  he  held  up  very  high, 
so  there  was  something  in  his  mere  motion 
that  laid  Mrs.  Beale  again  bare.  "  Here  we 
are !  "  he  cried  almost  from  the  door,  shaking 
his  trophy  at  them  and  looking  from  one  to 
the  other.  Then  he  came  straight  to  Mrs. 
Wix:  he  had  pulled  two  papers  out  of  the 
envelope  and  glanced  at  them  again  to  see 
which  was  which.  He  thrust  one  out  open 
to  Mrs.  Wix.  "  Read  that."  She  looked  at 
him  hard,  as  if  in  fear :  it  was  impossible  not 
to  see  that  he  was  excited.  Then  she  took 
the  letter,  but  it  was  not  her  face  that  Maisie 
watched  while  she  read.  Neither,  for  that 
matter,  was  it  this  countenance  that  Sir 
Claude  scanned :  he  stood  before  the  fire 
and,  more  calmly  now  that  he  had  acted, 
communed  in  silence  with  his  stepdaughter. 
This  silence  was  in  truth  quickly  broken : 
Mrs.  Wix  rose  to  her  feet  with  the  violence 
of  the  sound  she  emitted.  The  letter  had 


326      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

dropped  from  her  and  lay  upon  the  floor ;  it 
had  made  her  turn  ghastly  white,  and  she 
was  speechless  with  the  effect  of  it.  "  It 's 
too  abominable  —  it 's  too  unspeakable  !  "  she 
then  cried. 

"Isn't  it  a  charming  thing?"  Sir  Claude 
asked.  "  It  has  just  arrived,  enclosed  in  a 
word  of  her  own.  She  sends  it  on  to  me 
with  the  remark  that  comment  is  superfluous. 
I  really  think  it  is  —  that 's  all  you  can  say." 

"  She  ought  n't  to  pass  such  a  horror 
about,"  said  Mrs.  Wix.  "  She  ought  to  put 
it  straight  in  the  fire." 

"  My  dear  woman,  she 's  not  such  a  fool ! 
It's  much  too  precious."  He  had  picked  the 
letter  up,  and  he  gave  it,  again,  a  glance  of 
complacency  which  produced  a  light  in  his 
face.  "  Such  a  document  "  —  he  considered, 
then  concluded  with  a  slight  drop  —  "  such  a 
document  is,  in  fine,  a  basis." 

"A  basis  for  what?" 

"Well  —  for  proceedings." 

"  Hers  ?  "  Mrs.  Wix's  voice  had  become 
outright  the  voice  of  derision.  "  How  can 
she  proceed  ? " 

Sir  Claude  turned  it  over.  "  How  can  she 
get  rid  of  him  ?  Well  —  she  is  rid  of  him." 

"  Not  legally."     Mrs.  Wix  had  never  looked 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      327 

to  her  pupil  so  much  as  if  she  knew  what  she 
was  talking  about. 

"I  dare  say,"  Sir  Claude  laughed;  "but 
she 's  not  a  bit  less  deprived  than  I  am !  " 

"  Of  the  power  to  get  a  divorce?  It's  just 
your  want  of  the  power  that  makes  the  scan- 
dal of  your  connection  with  her.  Therefore 
it's  just  her  want  of  it  that  makes  that  of 
hers  with  you.  That's  all  I  contend!" 
Mrs.  Wix  concluded  with  an  unparalleled 
neigh  of  battle.  Oh,  she  did  know  what  she 
was  talking  about ! 

Maisie  had  meanwhile  appealed  mutely  to 
Sir  Claude,  who  judged  it  easier  to  meet 
what  she  did  n't  say  than  to  meet  what  Mrs. 
Wix  did.  "It's  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Beale  from 
your  father,  my  dear,  written  from  Spa  and 
making  the  rupture  between  them  perfectly 
irrevocable.  It  lets  her  know,  and  not  in 
pretty  language,  that,  as  we  technically  say, 
he  deserts  her.  It  puts  an  end,  forever,  to 
their  relations."  He  ran  his  eyes  over  it 
again,  then  appeared  to  make  up  his  mind. 
"  In  fact  it  concerns  you,  Maisie,  so  nearly, 
and  refers  to  you  so  particularly,  that  I  really 
think  you  ought  to  see  the  terms  in  which 
this  new  situation  is  created  for  you."  And 
he  held  out  the  letter. 


328      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Mrs.  Wix,  at  this,  pounced  upon  it ;  she 
had  grabbed  it  too  soon  even  for  Maisie  to 
become  aware  of  being  rather  afraid  of  it. 
Thrusting  it  instantly  behind  her,  she  posi- 
tively glared  at  Sir  Claude.  "'See'  it, 
wretched  man  —  the  innocent  child  see  such 
a  thing?  I  think  you  must  be  mad,  and  she 
shall  not  have  a  glimpse  of  it  while  I  'm  here 
to  prevent." 

The  breadth  of  her  action  had  made  Sir 
Claude  turn  red  —  he  even  looked  a  little 
foolish.  "You  think  it's  too  bad,  eh  ?  But 
it 's  precisely  because  it 's  bad  that  it  seemed 
to  me  it  would  have  a  lesson  and  a  virtue  for 
her." 

Maisie  could  do  a  quick  enough  justice  to 
his  motive  to  be  able  clearly  to  interpose. 
She  fairly  smiled  at  him.  "  I  assure  you  I 
can  quite  believe  how  bad  it  is  ! "  She  hesi- 
tated an  instant ;  then  she  added :  "I  know 
what 's  in  it." 

He  of  course  burst  out  laughing,  and  while 
Mrs.  Wix  groaned  an  "  Oh  heavens ! "  he 
threw  off:  "  You  would  n't  say  that,  old  boy, 
if  you  did !  The  point  I  make  is,"  he  con- 
tinued to  Mrs.  Wix  with  a  blandness  now 
re-established  —  "  the  point  I  make  is  simply 
that  it  sets  Mrs.  Beale  free." 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      329 

She  hung  fire  but  an  instant.  "  Free  to 
live  with  you?" 

"  Free  not  to  live,  not  to  pretend  to  live, 
with  her  husband." 

"  Ah,  they  're  mighty  different  things  !  "  — 
a  truth  as  to  which  her  earnestness  could  now, 
with  a  fine,  inconsequent  look,  invite  the  par- 
ticipation of  the  child. 

Before  Maisie  could  commit  herself,  how- 
ever, the  ground  was  occupied  by  Sir  Claude, 
who,  as  he  stood  before  their  visitor  with  an 
expression  half  rueful,  half  persuasive,  rubbed 
his  hand  sharply  up  and  down  the  back  of 
his  head.  "Then  why  the  deuce  do  you 
grant  so  —  do  you,  I  may  even  say,  rejoice 
so  —  that,  by  the  desertion  of  my  precious 
partner,  I'm  free?" 

Mrs.  Wix  met  this  challenge  first  with  si- 
lence, then  with  a  demonstration  the  most 
extraordinary,  the  most  unexpected.  Maisie 
could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes  as  she  saw 
the  good  lady,  with  whom  she  had  never 
associated  the  faintest  form  of  coquetry, 
actually,  after  an  upward  grimace,  give  Sir 
Claude  a  great  giggling,  insinuating,  naughty 
slap.  "You  wretch  —  you  know  why  !  "  And 
she  turned  away.  The  face  that,  with  this 
movement,  she  left  him  to  present  to  Maisie 


330      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

was  to  abide  with  his  stepdaughter  as  the 
very  image  of  stupefaction;  but  the  pair 
lacked  time  to  communicate  either  amuse- 
ment or  alarm  before  their  interlocutress  was 
upon  them  again.  She  had  begun  in  fact  to 
show  infinite  variety,  and  she  flashed  about 
with  a  still  quicker  change  of  tone.  "  Have 
you  brought  me  that  thing  as  a  pretext  for 
going  over?  " 

Sir  Claude  braced  himself.  "I  can't,  after 
such  news,  in  common  decency  not.  I  mean 
—  don't  you  know? — in  common  courtesy  and 
humanity.  My  dear  lady,  you  can't  chuck  a 
woman  that  way,  especially  taking  the  mo- 
ment when  she  has  been  most  insulted  and 
wronged.  A  fellow  must  behave  like  a  gen- 
tleman, damn  it,  dear  good  Mrs.  Wix.  We 
did  n't  come  away,  we  two,  to  hang  right  on, 
you  know :  it  was  only  to  try  our  paces  and 
just  put  in  a  few  days  that  might  prove  to 
every  one  concerned  that  we're  in  earnest. 
It 's  exactly  because  we  're  in  earnest  that, 
hang  it,  we  need  n't  be  so  awfully  particular. 
I  mean  —  don't  you  know?  —  we  need  n't  be 
so  awfully  afraid."  He  showed  a  vivacity,  an 
intensity  of  argument,  and  if  Maisie  counted 
his  words  she  was  all  the  more  ready  to  swal- 
low, after  a  single  swift  gasp,  those  that,  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      331 

next  thing,  she  became  conscious  he  paused 
for  a  reply  to.  "  We  did  n't  come,  old  girl, 
did  we,"  he  pleaded  straight,  "  to  stop  right 
away  forever  and  put  it  all  in  now?  " 

Maisie  had  never  doubted  she  could  be 
heroic  for  him.  "Oh,  no!"  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  shocked  at  the  bare  thought. 
"We're  just  taking  it  as  we  find  it."  She 
had  a  sudden  inspiration,  which  she  backed 
up  with  a  smile.  "We're  just  seeing  what 
we  can  afford."  She  had  never  yet,  in  her 
life,  made  any  claim  for  herself,  but  she  hoped 
that  this  time,  frankly,  what  she  was  doing 
would  somehow  be  counted  to  her.  Indeed 
she  felt  Sir  Claude  was  counting  it,  though 
she  was  afraid  to  look  at  him  —  afraid  she 
should  show  him  tears.  She  looked  at  Mrs. 
Wix ;  she  reached  her  maximum.  "  I  don't 
think  I  should  be  bad  to  Mrs.  Beale." 

She  heard  on  this  a  deep  sound,  some- 
thing inarticulate  and  sweet,  from  Sir  Claude ; 
but  tears  were  what  Mrs.  Wix  did  n't  scruple 
to  show.  "  Do  you  think  you  should  be  bad 
to  me?  "  The  question  was  the  more  discon- 
certing that  Mrs.  Wix's  emotion  didn't  de- 
prive her  of  the  advantage  of  her  effect.  "  If 
you  see  that  woman  again  you  're  lost !  "  she 
declared  to  their  companion. 


332      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Sir  Claude  looked  at  the  moony  globe  of 
the  lamp ;  he  seemed  to  see  for  an  instant 
what  seeing  Mrs.  Beale  would  consist  of.  It 
was  also  apparently  from  this  vision  that  he 
drew  strength  to  return :  "  Her  situation,  by 
what  has  happened,  is  completely  changed ; 
and  it 's  no  use  your  trying  to  prove  to  me 
that  I  need  n't  take  any  account  of  that." 

"  If  you  see  that  woman  you  're  lost !  " 
Mrs.  Wix,  with  greater  force,  repeated. 

"  Do  you  think  she  '11  not  let  me  come 
back  to  you?  My  dear  lady,  I  leave  you 
here,  you  and  Maisie,  as  an  hostage  to  for- 
tune, and  I  promise  you  by  all  that 's  sacred 
that  I  shall  be  with  you  again,  at  the  very 
latest,  on  Saturday.  I  provide  you  with 
funds ;  I  install  you  in  these  lovely  rooms ;  I 
arrange  with  the  people  here  that  you  be 
treated  with  every  attention  and  supplied 
with  every  luxury.  The  weather,  after  this, 
will  mend ;  it  will  be  sure  to  be  exquisite. 
You  '11  both  be  as  free  as  air,  and  you  can 
roam  all  over  the  place  and  have  tremendous 
larks.  You  shall  have  a  carriage  to  drive 
you ;  the  whole  house  shall  be  at  your  call. 
You  '11  have,  in  a  word,  a  magnificent  posi- 
tion." He  paused,  he  looked  from  one  of  his 
companions  to  the  other  as  if  to  see  the  im- 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       333 

pression  he  had  made.  Whether  or  no  he 
judged  it  adequate  he  subjoined  after  a  mo- 
ment :  "  And  you  '11  oblige  me,  above  all,  by 
not  making  a  fuss." 

Maisie  could  only  answer  for  the  impres- 
sion on  herself,  though  indeed  from  the  heart 
even  of  Mrs.  Wix's  rigor  there  floated,  to  her 
sense,  a  faint  fragrance  of  depraved  conces- 
sion. Maisie  had  her  dumb  word  for  the 
show  such  a  speech  could  make,  for  the 
exquisite  charm  it  could  take  from  his  ex- 
quisite sincerity;  and  before  she  could  do 
anything  but  blink  at  excess  of  light  she 
heard  this  very  word  sound  on  Mrs.  Wix's 
lips,  just  as  if  the  poor  lady  had  guessed  it  and 
wished,  snatching  it  from  her,  to  blight  it  like 
a  crumpled  flower.  "  You  're  dreadful,  you  're 
terrible,  for  you  know  but  too  well  that  it 's 
not  a  small  thing  to  me  that  you  should  ad- 
dress me  in  a  fashion  that 's  princely ! " 
Princely  was  what  he  stood  there  and  looked 
and  sounded ;  that  was  what  Maisie,  for  the 
occasion,  found  herself  reduced  to  simple 
worship  of  him  for  being.  Yet,  strange  to 
say  too,  as  Mrs.  Wix  went  on,  an  echo  rang 
within  her  that  matched  the  echo  she  had 
herself  just  produced.  "  How  much  you 
must  want  to  see  her,  to  say  such  things  as 


334      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

that  and  to  be  ready  to  do  so  much  for  the 
poor  little  likes  of  Maisie  and  me !  She  has 
a  hold  of  you,  and  you  know  it,  and  you 
want  to  feel  it  again,  and  —  from  God  knows, 
or  at  least  /  know,  what  base  motive  and  de- 
sire— to  enjoy  it  once  more  and  give  your- 
self up  to  it !  It  does  n't  matter  if  it 's  one 
day  or  three;  enough's  as  good  as  a  feast, 
and  the  lovely  time  you  '11  have  with  her  is 
something  you  're  willing  to  pay  for !  I  dare 
say  you  'd  like  me  to  believe  that  your  pay 
is  to  get  her  to  give  you  up ;  but  that 's  a 
matter  on  which  I  adjure  you  not  to  put 
down  your  money  in  advance.  Give  her  up 
first.  Then  pay  her  what  you  please  !  " 

Sir  Claude  took  this  to  the  end;  though 
there  were  things  in  it  that  made  him  color, 
called  into  his  face  more  of  the  apprehension 
than  Maisie  had  ever  perceived  there  of  a 
particular  sort  of  shock.  She  had  an  odd 
sense  that  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen 
any  one  but  Mrs.  Wix  really  and  truly  scan- 
dalized, and  this  fed  her  inference,  which 
grew  and  grew  from  moment  to  moment, 
that  Mrs.  Wix  was  proving  more  of  a  force 
to  reckon  with  than  either  of  them  had  allowed 
so  much  room  for.  It  was  true  that,  long 
before,  she  had  obtained  a  "hold"  of  him, 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      335 

as  she  called  it,  different  in  kind  from  that 
obtained  by  Mrs.  Beale  and,  originally,  by 
her  ladyship.  But  Maisie  could  quite  feel 
with  him  now  that  he  had  really  not  expected 
that  advantage  to  be  driven  so  home.  Oh, 
they  had  n't  at  all  got  yet  to  where  Mrs.  Wix 
would  stop,  for  the  next  minute  she  was 
driving  harder  than  ever.  It  was  the  result 
of  his  saying  with  a  certain  dryness,  though 
so  kindly  that  what  most  affected  Maisie  in 
it  was  his  patience:  "My  dear  friend,  it's 
simply  a  matter  in  which  I  must  judge  for 
myself.  You  've  judged  for  me,  I  know,  a 
good  deal  of  late,  in  a  way  that  I  appreciate, 
I  assure  you,  down  to  the  ground.  But  you 
can't  do  it  always:  no  one  can  do  that  for 
another,  don't  you  see?  in  every  case. 
There  are  exceptions,  particular  cases  that 
turn  up  and  that  are  awfully  delicate.  It 
would  be  too  easy  if  I  could  shift  it  all  off 
on  you ;  it  would  be  allowing  you  to  incur  an 
amount  of  responsibility  that  I  should  simply 
become  quite  ashamed  of.  You  '11  find,  I  'm 
sure,  that  you  '11  have  quite  as  much  as 
you  '11  enjoy  if  you  '11  be  so  good  as  to 
accept  the  situation  as  circumstances  happen 
to  make  it  for  you,  and  to  stay  here  with  our 
friend,  till  I  rejoin  you,  on  the  footing  of  as 


336      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

much  pleasantness  and  as  much  comfort  — 
and  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  add,  to  both  of 
you,  of  as  much  faith  in  me  —  as  possible. " 

Oh,  he  was  princely  indeed !  that  came  out 
more  and  more  with  every  word  he  said  and 
with  the  particular  way  he  said  it,  and  Maisie 
could  feel  his  monitress  stiffen  almost  with 
anguish  against  the  increase  of  his  spell  and 
then  hurl  herself,  as  a  desperate  defence  from 
it,  into  the  almost  admitted  inferiority  of 
violence,  of  iteration.  "You're  afraid  of 
her  —  afraid,  afraid,  afraid !  Oh,  dear,  oh, 
dear,  oh,  dear ! "  Mrs.  Wix  wailed  it  with  a 
high  quaver,  then  broke  down  into  a  long 
shudder  of  helplessness  and  woe.  The  next 
minute  she  had  flung  herself  again  on  the 
hard  sofa  and  had  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears. 

Sir  Claude  stood  and  looked  at  her  a 
moment;  he  shook  his  head  slowly  and  al- 
most tenderly.  "  I  've  already  admitted  it  — 
I  'm  in  mortal  terror,  and  we  '11  let  that  settle 
the  question.  I  think  you  had  best  go  to 
bed,"  he  added;  "you've  had  a  tremendous 
day  and  you  must  both  be  tired  to  death. 
I  shall  not  expect  you  to  concern  yourselves 
in  the  morning  with  my  movements.  There  's 
an  early  boat  on;  I  shall  have  cleared  out 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       337 

before  you  're  up;  and  I  shall  moreover  have 
dealt  directly  and  most  effectively,  I  assure 
you,  with  the  haughty  but  not  quite  hope- 
less Miss  Ash."  He  turned  to  his  step- 
daughter as  if  at  once  to  take  leave  of  her 
and  give  her  a  sign  of  how,  through  all  ten- 
sion and  friction,  they  were  still  united  in 
such  a  way  that  she  at  least  needn't  worry. 
"  Maisie,  boy ! " —  he  opened  his  arms  to  her. 
With  her  culpable  lightness  she  flew  into 
them  and,  while  he  kissed  her,  chose  the  soft 
method  of  silence  to  promise  him  the  silence 
that,  after  battles  of  talk,  was  the  best  balm 
she  could  offer  his  wounds.  They  held  each 
other  long  enough  to  reaffirm  intensely  their 
vows;  after  which  they  were  almost  forced 
apart  by  Mrs.  Wix's  jumping  to  her  feet. 

Her  jump,  either  with  a  quick  return  or 
with  a  final  lapse  of  courage,  was  also  to 
supplication  almost  abject.  "  I  beseech  you 
not  to  take  a  step  so  miserable  and  so  fatal. 
I  know  her  but  too  well,  even  if  you  jeer  at 
me  for  saying  it;  little  as  I  've  seen  her  I 
know  her,  I  know  her.  I  know  what  she  '11 
do  —  I  see  it  as  I  stand  here.  Since  you  are 
afraid  of  her,  it 's  the  mercy  of  heaven ; 
don't,  for  God's  sake,  be  afraid  to  show  it, 
to  profit  by  it  and  to  arrive  at  the  very  safety 

22 


338      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

that  it  gives  you.  /  'm  not  afraid  of  her,  I 
assure  you ;  you  must  already  have  seen  for 
yourself  that  there's  nothing  I'm  afraid  of 
now !  Let  me  go  to  her — I  '11  settle  her,  and 
I  '11  take  that  woman  back  without  a  hair  of 
her  touched.  Let  me  put  in  the  two  or  three 
days  —  let  me  wind  up  the  connection !  You 
stay  here  with  Maisie,  with  the  carriage  and 
the  larks  and  the  luxury;  then  I  '11  return 
to  you,  and  we  '11  go  off  together  and  we  '11 
live  together  without  a  cloud.  Take  me, 
take  me,"  she  went  on  and  on  —  the  tide  of 
her  eloquence  was  high.  "Here  I  am;  I 
know  what  I  am  and  what  I  ain't;  but  I  say 
boldly  to  the  face  of  you  both  that  I  '11  do 
better  for  you,  far,  than  ever  she  will  even 
try  to.  I  say  it  to  yours,  Sir  Claude,  even 
though  I  owe  you  the  very  dress  on  my  back 
and  the  very  shoes  on  my  feet.  I  owe  you 
everything  —  that 's  just  the  reason;  and  to 
pay  it  back,  in  profusion  —  what  can  that  be 
but  what  I  want  ?  Here  I  am  —  here  I  am  !  " 
she  repeated,  spreading  herself  with  an  air 
of  exhibition  that,  combined  with  her  inten- 
sity and  her  decorations,  appeared  to  suggest 
her  for  strange  offices  and  devotions,  for 
ridiculous  replacements  and  substitutions. 
She  manipulated  her  gown  as  she  talked,  she 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      339 

insisted  on  the  items  of  her  debt.  "  I  have 
nothing  of  my  own,  I  know  —  no  money,  no 
clothes,  no  appearance,  no  anything;  noth- 
ing but  my  hold  of  this  one  little  truth  which 
is  all  in  the  world  I  can  bribe  you  with  — 
that  the  pair  of  you  are  more  to  me  than  all 
besides,  and  that  if  you  '11  let  me  help  you 
and  save  you,  make  what  you  both  want  pos- 
sible in  the  one  way  it  can  be,  why,  I  '11 
work  myself  to  the  bone  in  your  service ! " 

Sir  Claude  wavered  there  without  an  an- 
swer to  this  magnificent  appeal;  he  plainly 
cast  about  for  one,  and  in  no  small  agita- 
tion and  pain.  He  addressed  himself  in  his 
quest,  however,  only  to  vague  quarters,  until 
he  met  renewedly,  as  he  so  frequently  and 
actively  met  it,  the  more  than  filial  gaze  of 
his  intelligent  little  charge.  That  gave 
him  —  poor  plastic  and  dependent  male  —  his 
issue.  If  she  was  still  a  child,  she  was  yet 
of  the  sex  that  could  help  him  out.  He 
signified  as  much  by  a  renewed  invitation  to 
an  embrace;  she  freshly  sprang  to  him,  and 
again  they  inaudibly  conversed.  "  Be  nice 
to  her,  be  nice  to  her,"  he  at  last  distinctly 
articulated  —  "be  nice  to  her  as  you  've  not 
even  been  to  me  ! "  On  which,  without 
another  look  at  Mrs.  Wix,  he  somehow  got 


340      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

out  of  the  room;  leaving  Maisie  under  the 
slight  oppression  of  these  words  as  well  as 
of  the  idea  that  he  had,  unmistakably,  once 
more  dodged. 


XXV 

EVERY  single  thing  he  had  thus  prophesied 
came  so  true  that  it  was  after  all  no  more 
than  fair  to  expect  quite  as  much  for  what 
he  had  as  good  as  promised.  His  pledges 
they  could  verify  to  the  letter,  down  to  his 
very  guarantee  that  a  way  would  be  found 
with  Miss  Ash.  Roused  in  the  summer 
dawn  and  vehemently  squeezed  by  that  inter- 
esting exile,  Maisie  fell  back  upon  her  couch 
with  a  renewed  appreciation  of  his  policy; 
a  memento  of  which,  when  she  rose,  later  on, 
to  dress,  glittered  at  her  from  the  carpet  in 
the  shape  of  a  sixpence  that  had  overflowed 
from  Susan's  pride  of  possession.  Six- 
pences really,  for  the  forty-eight  hours  that 
followed,  seemed  to  abound  in  her  life;  she 
fancifully  computed  the  number  of  them 
represented  by  such  a  period  of  "larks." 
The  number  was  not  kept  down,  she  pres- 
ently noticed,  by  any  scheme  of  revenge  for 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      341 

Sir  Claude's  flight  which  should  take,  on 
Mrs.  Wix's  part,  the  form  of  a  refusal  to 
avail  herself  of  the  facilities  he  had  so  bravely 
ordered.  It  was  in  fact  impossible  to  escape 
them;  it  was,  in  the  good  lady's  own  phrase, 
ridiculous  to  go  on  foot  when  you  had  a  car- 
riage prancing  at  the  door.  Everything 
about  them  pranced,  the  very  waiters,  even, 
as  they  presented  the  dishes  to  which,  from 
a  similar  sense  of  the  absurdity  of  perver- 
sity, Mrs.  Wix  helped  herself  with  a  freedom 
that  spoke  to  Maisie  quite  as  much  of  her  de- 
pletion as  of  her  logic.  Her  appetite  was  a 
sign  to  her  companion  of  a  great  many 
things,  and  testified  not  less,  on  the  whole, 
to  her  general  than  to  her  particular  condi- 
tions. She  had  arrears  of  dinner  to  make  up, 
and  it  was  touching  that  in  a  dinnerless  state 
her  moral  passion  should  have  burned  so 
clear.  She  partook  largely,  as  a  refuge  from 
depression,  and  yet  the  opportunity  to  par- 
take was  just  a  mark  of  the  sinister  symptoms 
that  depressed  her.  The  affair  was  in  short 
a  combat,  in  which  the  baser  element  tri- 
umphed, between  her  refusal  to  be  bought  off 
and  her  consent  to  be  clothed  and  fed.  It 
was  not,  at  any  rate,  to  be  gainsaid  that 
there  was  comfort  for  her  in  the  develop- 


342      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

ments  of  France ;  comfort  so  great  as  to  leave 
Maisie  free  to  take  with  her  all  the  security 
for  granted  and  brush  all  the  danger  aside. 
That  was  the  way  to  carry  out  in  detail  Sir 
Claude's  injunction  to  be  "nice;"  that  was 
the  way  as  well  to  look  with  her,  in  a  sur- 
vey of  the  pleasures  of  life  abroad,  straight 
over  the  head  of  any  doubt. 

They  shrunk  at  last,  all  doubts,  as  the 
weather  cleared  up;  it  had  an  immense  effect 
on  them  and  became  quite  as  lovely  as  Sir 
Claude  had  engaged.  This  seemed  to  have 
put  him  so  into  the  secret  of  things,  and  the 
joy  of  the  world  so  waylaid  the  steps  of  his 
friends,  that  little  by  little  the  spirit  of  hope 
filled  the  air  and  finally  took  possession  of 
the  scene.  To  drive  on  the  long  cliff  was 
splendid,  but  it  was  perhaps  better  still  to 
creep  in  the  shade  —  for  the  sun  was  strong 
—  along  the  many-colored  and  many-odored 
port  and  through  the  streets  in  which,  to 
English  eyes,  everything  that  was  the  same 
was  a  mystery  and  everything  that  was 
different  a  joke.  Best  of  all  was  to  continue 
the  creep  up  the  long  Grand'  Rue  to  the 
gate  of  the  haute  ville  and,  passing  beneath 
it,  mount  to  the  quaint  and  crooked  rampart, 
with  its  rows  of  trees,  its  quiet  corners  and 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       343 

friendly  benches  where  brown  old  women, 
in  such  white  frilled  caps  and  such  long  gold 
earrings,  sat  and  knitted  or  snoozed  ;  its  little 
yellow-faced  houses  that  looked  like  the 
homes  of  misers  or  of  priests,  and  its  dark 
Chateau  where  small  soldiers  lounged  on  the 
bridge  that  stretched  across  an  empty  moat 
and  military  washing  hung  from  the  windows 
of  towers.  This  was  a  part  of  the  place  that 
could  lead  Maisie  to  inquire  if  it  did  n't  just 
meet  one's  idea  of  the  Middle  Ages;  and 
since  it  was  rather  a  satisfaction  than  a  shock 
to  perceive,  and  not  for  the  first  time,  the 
limits,  in  Mrs.  Wix's  mind,  of  the  historic 
imagination,  that  only  added  one  more  to  the 
variety  of  kinds  of  insight  that  she  felt  it 
her  own  present  mission  to  show.  They  sat 
together  on  the  gray  old  bastion ;  they  looked 
down  on  the  little  new  town  which  seemed 
to  them  quite  as  old,  and  across  at  the  great 
dome  and  the  high  gilt  Virgin  of  the  church 
that,  as  they  gathered,  was  famous  and  that 
pleased  them  by  its  unlikeness  to  any  place 
in  which  they  had  worshipped.  They  wan- 
dered in  this  temple  afterwards,  and  Mrs. 
Wix  confessed  that  for  herself  she  had 
probably  early  in  life  made  in  not  being  a 
Catholic  a  fatal  mistake.  Her  confession 


344      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

in  its  turn  caused  Maisie  to  wonder  rather 
interestedly  what  degree  of  maturity  it  was 
that  shut  the  door  against  an  escape  from 
such  an  error.  They  went  back  to  the  ram- 
part on  the  second  morning:  the  spot  in 
which  they  appeared  to  have  come  furthest 
on  the  journey  that  was  to  separate  them 
from  everything  that  in  the  past  had  been 
objectionable;  it  gave  them  afresh  the  im- 
pression that  had  most  to  do  with  their  hav- 
ing worked  round  to  a  confidence  that  on 
Maisie' s  part  was  determined  and  that  she 
could  see  to  be  on  her  companion's  desper- 
ate. She  had  had  for  many  hours  the  sense 
of  showing  Mrs.  Wix  so  much  that  she  was 
comparatively  slow  to  become  conscious  of 
being  at  the  same  time  the  subject  of  a  simi- 
lar process.  The  process  went  the  faster, 
however,  from  the  moment  she  got  her 
glimpse  of  it;  it  then  fell  into  its  place  in 
her  general,  her  habitual  view  of  the  particu- 
lar phenomenon  that,  had  she  felt  the  need 
of  words  for  it,  she  might  have  called  her 
personal  relation  to  her  knowledge.  This 
relation  had  never  been  so  lively  as  during 
the  time  she  waited  with  her  old  governess 
for  Sir  Claude;  and  what  made  it  so  was 
exactly  that  Mrs.  Wix  struck  her  as  having 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       345 

a  new  suspicion  of  it.  Mrs.  Wix  had  never 
yet  had  a  suspicion  —  that  was  certain  —  so 
calculated  to  throw  her  pupil,  in  spite  of  the 
closer  union  of  these  adventurous  hours, 
upon  the  deep  defensive.  Her  pupil  made 
out  indeed  as  many  marvels  as  she  had  made 
out  on  the  rush  to  Folkestone;  and  if  in  Sir 
Claude's  company  on  that  occasion  Mrs. 
Wix  was  the  constant  implication,  so  in  Mrs. 
Wix's,  in  the  actual  crisis,  Sir  Claude  was 

—  and  most  of  all  through  long  pauses  —  the 
perpetual,  the  insurmountable  theme.     It  all 
took  them  back  to  the  first  flush  of  his  mar- 
riage and  to  the  place  he  held  in  the  school- 
room in  those  months  of  love  and  pain ;  only 
he  had  himself  blown  to  a  much  bigger  bal- 
loon the  large  consciousness  he  then  filled 
out. 

They  went  through  it  all  again,  and  in- 
deed while  the  interval  lingered  with  the 
very  weight  of  its  charm  they  went,  in  spite 
of  defences  and  suspicions,  through  every- 
thing. Their  intensified  clutch  of  the  future 
throbbed  like  a  clock  ticking  seconds;  but 
this  was  a  timepiece  that  inevitably  as  well 

—  at  the  best  —  rang  occasionally  a  porten- 
tous hour.     Oh,  there  were  several  of  these, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  worst  on  the  old 


346      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

city-wall  where  everything  else  so  made  for 
peace.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
Maisie  more  wanted  than  to  be  to  Mrs. 
Wix  as  nice  as  Sir  Claude  had  desired;  but 
it  was  exactly  because  this  fell  in  with  her 
inveterate  instinct  of  keeping  the  peace  that 
the  instinct  itself  was  quickened.  From  the 
moment  it  was  quickened,  however,  it  found 
other  work,  and  that  was  how,  to  begin  with, 
she  produced  the  very  complication  she  most 
sought  to  avert.  What  she  had  essentially 
done  these  days  had  been  to  read  the  un- 
spoken into  the  spoken;  so  that  thus,  with 
accumulations,  it  had  become  more  definite 
to  her  that  the  unspoken  was,  unspeakably, 
the  completeness  of  the  sacrifice  of  Mrs. 
Beale.  There  were  times  when  every  min- 
ute that  Sir  Claude  stayed  away  was  like  a 
nail  in  Mrs.  Beale's  coffin.  That  brought 
back  to  Maisie  —  it  was  a  roundabout  way  — 
the  beauty  and  antiquity  of  her  connection 
with  the  flower  of  the  Overmores,  as  well  as 
that  lady's  own  grace  and  charm,  her  pecu- 
liar prettiness  and  cleverness  and  even  her 
peculiar  tribulations.  A  hundred  things 
hummed  at  the  back  of  her  head,  but  two  of 
these  were  simple  enough.  Mrs.  Beale  was 
by  the  way,  after  all,  just  her  stepmother  and 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       347 

her  relative.  She  was  just,  and  partly  for 
that  very  reason,  Sir  Claude's  greatest  in- 
timate ("  lady-intimate  "  was  Maisie's  term) : 
so  that  what  together  they  were,  on  Mrs. 
Wix's  programme,  to  give  up  and  break  short 
off  with  was  for  one  of  them  his  particu- 
lar favorite  and  for  the  other  her  father's 
wife.  Strangely,  indescribably,  her  percep- 
tion of  reasons  kept  pace  with  her  sense  of 
trouble ;  but  there  was  something  in  her  that 
without  a  supreme  effort  not  to  be  shabby 
could  not  take  the  reasons  for  granted.  What 
it  comes  to  perhaps  for  ourselves  is  that, 
disinherited  and  denuded  as  we  have  seen 
her,  there  still  lingered  in  her  life  an  echo 
of  parental  influence  —  she  was  still  remi- 
niscent of  one  of  the  sacred  lessons  of  home. 
It  was  the  only  one  she  retained,  but  luckily 
she  retained  it  with  force.  She  enjoyed, 
in  a  word,  an  ineffaceable  view  of  the  fact 
that  there  were  things  papa  called  mamma 
and  mamma  called  papa  a  low  sneak  for 
doing  or  for  not  doing.  Now  this  rich 
memory  gave  her  a  name  that  she  dreaded 
to  invite  to  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Beale;  she 
would  personally  wince  so  just  to  hear  it. 
The  very  sweetness  of  the  foreign  life  she 
was  steeped  in  added  with  each  hour  of 


348      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

Sir  Claude's  absence  to  the  possibility  of 
such  pangs.  She  watched  beside  Mrs.  Wix 
the  great  golden  Madonna,  and  one  of  the 
earringed  old  women  who  had  been  sitting 
at  the  end  of  their  bench  got  up  and  pot- 
tered away.  "  Adieu,  mesdames !  "  said  the 
old  woman  in  a  little  cracked,  civil  voice  — 
a  demonstration  by  which  our  friends  were 
so  affected  that  they  bobbed  up  and  almost 
courtesied  to  her.  They  subsided  again,  and 
it  was  shortly  after,  in  a  summer  hum  of 
French  insects  and  a  phase  of  almost  som- 
nolent reverie,  that  Maisie  most  had  the 
vision  of  what  it  was  to  shut  out  from  such 
a  perspective  so  appealing  a  participant.  It 
had  not  yet  appeared  so  vast  as  at  that  mo- 
ment, this  prospect  of  statues  shining  in  the 
blue  and  of  courtesy  in  romantic  forms. 

"  Why,  after  all,  should  we  have  to  choose 
between  you  ?  Why  should  n't  we  be  four  ?  " 
she  finally  demanded. 

Mrs.  Wix  gave  the  jerk  of  a  sleeper  awak- 
ened, or  the  start  even  of  one  who  hears  a 
bullet  whiz  at  a  flag  of  truce ;  her  stupefac- 
tion at  such  a  breach  of  the  peace  delayed 
for  a  moment  her  answer.  "  Four  impropri- 
eties, do  you  mean  ?  Because  two  of  us  hap- 
pen to  be  decent  people !  Do  I  gather  you 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW       349 

to  wish  that  I  should  stay  on  with  you  even 
if  that  woman  is  capable  —  ?  " 

Maisie  took  her  up  before  she  could  fur- 
ther phrase  Mrs.  Beale's  capability.  "Stay 
on  as  my  companion  —  yes ;  stay  on  as  just 
what  you  were  at  mamma's.  Mrs.  Beale 
would  let  you ! "  the  child  proclaimed. 

Mrs.  Wix  had  by  this  time  fairly  sprung 
to  her  arms.  "And  who,  I  'd  like  to  know, 
would  let  Mrs.  Beale  ?  Do  you  mean,  little 
unfortunate,  that  you  would  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  —  if  now  she  '  s  free. " 

"Free?  Are  you  imitating  him?  Well, 
if  Sir  Claude  's  old  enough  to  know  better, 
upon  my  word  I  think  it 's  right  to  treat  you 
as  if  you  also  were.  You  '11  have  to,  at  any 
rate  —  to  know  better — if  that's  the  line 
you're  proposing  to  take."  Mrs.  Wix  had 
never  been  so  harsh,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
Maisie  could  guess  that  she  herself  had 
never  appeared  so  wanton.  What  was  un- 
derlying, however,  rather  overawed  than 
angered  her;  she  felt  she  could  still  insist 
not  for  contradiction,  but  for  ultimate  calm. 
Her  wantonness  meanwhile  continued  to 
work  upon  her  friend,  who  caught  again,  on 
the  rebound,  the  sound  of  deepest  provoca- 
tion. "Free,  free,  free?  If  she's  as  free 


350      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

as  you  are,  my  dear,  she  's  free  enough  to  be 
sure ! " 

"As  I  am?"  —  Maisie,  after  reflection 
and  in  the  face  of  what  of  portentous  this 
seemed  to  convey,  risked  a  critical  echo. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Wix,  "nobody,  you 
know,  is  free  to  commit  a  crime." 

"A  crime?" — the  word  had  come  out  in 
a  way  that  made  the  child  echo  it  again. 

"You'd  commit  as  great  a  one  as  their 
own  —  and  so  should  I !  —  if  we  were  to  con- 
done their  immorality  by  our  presence." 

Maisie  waited  a  little;  this  seemed  so 
fiercely  conclusive.  "Why  is  it  immoral- 
ity ?  "  she  nevertheless  presently  inquired. 

Her  companion  now  turned  upon  her  with 
a  reproach  softer  because  it  was  somehow 
deeper.  "  You  're  too  unspeakable !  Do  you 
know  what  we  're  talking  about  ?  " 

In  the  interest  of  ultimate  calm  Maisie 
felt  that  she  must  be,  above  all,  clear. 
"  Certainly ;  about  their  taking  advantage  of 
their  freedom. " 

"Well,  to  do  what?" 

"Why,  to  live  with  us." 

Mrs.  Wix's  laugh,  at  this,  was  literally 
wild.  " '  Us  '  ?  thank  you ! " 

"Then  to  live  with  me." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       351 

The  words  made  her  friend  jump.  "You 
give  me  up?  You  break  with  me  forever? 
You  turn  me  into  the  street?" 

Maisie  was  dazzled  by  the  enumeration, 
but  she  bore  bravely  up.  "  Those,  it  seems 
to  me,  are  the  things  you  do  to  me. " 

Mrs.  Wix  made  little  of  her  valor.  "I 
can  promise  you  that,  whatever  I  do,  I  shall 
never  let  you  out  of  my  sight !  You  ask  me 
why  it 's  immorality  when  you  've  seen  with 
your  own  eyes  that  Sir  Claude  has  felt  it  to 
be  so  to  that  dire  extent  that,  rather  than 
make  you  face  the  shame  of  it,  he  has  for 
months  kept  away  from  you  altogether?  Is 
it  any  more  difficult  to  see  that  the  first  time 
he  tries  to  do  his  duty  he  washes  his  hands 
of  her  ?  —  takes  you  straight  away  from 
her?" 

Maisie  turned  this  over,  but  more  for  ap- 
parent consideration  than  from  any  impulse 
to  yield  too  easily.  "Yes,  I  see  what  you 
mean.  But  at  that  time  they  weren't  free." 
She  felt  Mrs.  Wix  rear  up  again  at  the 
offensive  word,  but  she  succeeded  in  touch- 
ing her  with  a  remonstrant  hand.  "  I  don't 
think  you  know  how  free  they  've  become." 

"  I  know,  I  believe,  at  least  as  much  as 
you  do!" 


352      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Maisie  hesitated.    "  About  the  Countess  ? " 

"Your  father's  —  temptress?"  Mrs.  Wix 
gave  her  a  sidelong  squint.  "Perfectly. 
She  pays  him  ! " 

"Oh,  does  she?"  At  this  the  child's 
countenance  fell :  it  seemed  to  give  a  reason 
for  papa's  behavior  and  place  it  in  a  more 
favorable  light.  She  wished  to  be  just.  "  I 
don't  say  she  's  not  generous.  She  was  so 
to  me." 

"How,  to  you?" 

"  She  gave  me  a  lot  of  money. " 

Mrs.  Wix  stared.  "And,  pray,  what  did 
you  do  with  the  lot  of  money? " 

"I  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Beale." 

"And  what  did  Mrs.  Beale  do  with  it?" 

"She  sent  it  back." 

"  To  the  Countess  ?  Gammon ! "  said  Mrs. 
Wix.  She  disposed  of  that  plea  as  effectu- 
ally as  Susan  Ash. 

"Well,  I  don't  care!"  Maisie  replied. 
"What  I  mean  is  that  you  don't  know  about 
the  rest." 

"The  rest?     What  rest?" 

Maisie  wondered  how  she  could  best  put 
it.  "  Papa  kept  me  there  an  hour. " 

"I  do  know — Sir  Claude  told  me.  Mrs. 
Beale  had  told  him." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      353 

Maisie  looked  incredulity.  "  How  could 
she  ?  —  when  I  did  n't  speak  of  it !  " 

Mrs.  Wixwas  mystified.   "  Speak  of  what  ? " 

"Why,  of  her  being  so  frightful." 

"The  Countess?  Of  course  she  's  fright- 
ful," Mrs.  Wix  declared.  After  a  moment 
she  added :  "That 's  why  she  pays  him." 

Maisie  pondered.  "It's  the  best  thing 
about  her  then  —  if  she  gives  him  as  much 
as  she  gave  me. " 

a  Well,  it 's  not  the  best  thing  about  him! 
Or  rather  perhaps  it  is  too!"  Mrs.  Wix 
subjoined. 

"But  she's  awful  —  really  and  truly," 
Maisie  went  on. 

Mrs.  Wix  arrested  her.  "You  needn't 
go  into  details  ! "  It  was  visibly  at  variance 
with  this  injunction  that  she  yet  inquired: 
"  How  does  that  make  it  any  better?  " 

"Their  living  with  me?  Why,  for  the 
Countess  —  and  for  her  whiskers !  —  he  has 
put  me  off  on  them.  I  understood  him," 
Maisie  profoundly  said. 

"I  hope  then  he  understood  you.  It's 
more  than  I  do!"  Mrs.  Wix  admitted. 

That  was  a  real  challenge  to  be  plainer, 
and  our  young  lady  immediately  became  so. 
"  I  mean  it  is  n't  a  crime.  n 
23 


354      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"Why,  then,  did  Sir  Claude  steal  you 
away  ? " 

"He  didn't  steal  —  he  only  borrowed  me. 
I  knew  it  wasn't  for  long,"  Maisie  auda- 
ciously professed. 

"You  must  allow  me  to  reply  to  that/* 
cried  Mrs.  Wix,  "  that  you  knew  nothing  of 
the  sort,  and  that  you  rather  basely  failed  to 
back  me  up  last  night  when  you  pretended 
so  plump  that  you  did !  You  hoped  in  fact 
exactly  as  much  as  I  did,  and  as  in  my  sense- 
less passion  I  even  hope  now,  that  this  may 
be  the  beginning  of  better  things." 

Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Wix  was  indeed,  for  the  first 
time,  sharp;  so  that  there  at  last  stirred  in 
our  heroine  the  sense  not  so  much  of  being 
proved  disingenuous  as  of  being  precisely 
accused  of  the  meanness  that  had  brought 
everything  down  on  her  through  her  very 
desire  to  shake  herself  clear  of  it.  She  sud- 
denly felt  herself  swell  with  a  passion  of 
protest.  "I  never,  never  hoped  I  wasn't 
going  again  to  see  Mrs.  Beale!  I  didn't,  I 
did  n't,  I  did  n't !  "  she  repeated.  Mrs.  Wix 
bounced  about  with  a  force  of  rejoinder  of 
which  she  also  felt  that  she  must  anticipate 
the  concussion,  and  which,  though  the  good 
lady  was  evidently  charged  to  the  brim,  hung 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      355 

fire  long  enough  to  give  time  for  an  aggrava- 
tion. "She's  beautiful,  and  I  love  her!  I 
love  her,  and  she  's  beautiful ! " 

"And  I'm  hideous,  and  you  hate  me?" 
Mrs.  Wix  fixed  her  a  moment,  then  caught 
herself  up.  "I  won't  embitter  you  by  abso- 
lutely accusing  you  of  that;  though,  as  for 
my  being  hideous,  it's  hardly  the  first  time 
I  've  been  told  so !  I  know  it  so  well  that 
even  if  I  haven't  whiskers  —  have  I?  —  I 
dare  say  there  are  other  ways  in  which  the 
Countess  is  a  Venus  to  me !  My  pretensions 
must  therefore  seem  to  you  monstrous  — 
which  comes  to  the  same  thing  as  your  not 
liking  me.  But  do  you  mean  to  go  so  far  as 
to  tell  me  that  you  want  to  live  with  them 
in  their  sin  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  want,  you  know  what 
I  want ! "  Maisie  spoke  with  the  quaver  of 
rising  tears. 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  you  want  me  to  be  as  bad  as 
yourself!  Well,  I  won't.  There!  Mrs. 
Beale 's  as  bad  as  your  father!"  Mrs.  Wix 
went  on. 

"She's  not  —  she's  not!"  her  pupil  al- 
most shrieked  in  retort. 

"You  mean  because  Sir  Claude  at  least 
has  beauty  and  wit  and  grace  ?  But  he  pays, 


356      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

just  as  the  Countess  pays!"  Mrs.  Wix,  who 
now  rose  as  she  spoke,  fairly  revealed  a 
latent  cynicism. 

It  raised  Maisie  also  to  her  feet ;  her  com- 
panion had  walked  off  a  few  steps  and  paused. 
The  two  looked  at  each  other  as  they  had 
never  looked,  and  Mrs.  Wix  seemed  to  flaunt 
there  in  her  finery.  "  Then  does  n't  he  pay 
you  too  ?  "  her  unhappy  charge  demanded. 

At  this  she  bounded  in  her  place.  "  Oh, 
you  incredible  little  waif ! "  She  brought  it 
out  with  a  wail  of  violence ;  after  which,  with 
another  convulsion,  she  marched  straight 
away. 

Maisie  dropped  back  on  the  bench  and 
burst  into  sobs. 


XXVI 

NOTHING  so  dreadful,  of  course,  could  be 
final  or  even,  for  many  minutes,  provisional : 
they  rushed  together  again  too  soon  for 
either  to  feel  that  either  had  kept  it  up,  and 
though  they  went  home  in  silence  it  was 
with  a  vivid  perception  for  Maisie  that  her 
companion's  hand  had  closed  upon  her. 
That  hand  had  shown,  altogether,  these 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      357 

twenty-four  hours,  a  new  capacity  for  clos- 
ing, and  one  of  the  truths  the  child  could 
least  resist  was  that  a  certain  greatness  had 
now  come  to  Mrs.  Wix.  The  case  was  in- 
deed that  the  quality  of  her  motive  surpassed 
the  sharpness  of  her  angles ;  both  the  combi- 
nation and  the  singularity  of  which  things, 
when  in  the  afternoon  they  used  the  carriage, 
Maisie  could  borrow  from  the  contemplative 
hush  of  their  grandeur  the  freedom  to  feel 
to  the  utmost.  She  still  bore  the  mark  of 
the  tone  in  which  her  friend  had  thrown  out 
that  threat  of  never  losing  sight  of  her. 
This  friend  had  been  converted,  in  short, 
from  feebleness  to  force;  and  it  was  the 
light  of  her  present  power  that  showed  from 
how  far  she  had  come.  The  threat  in  ques- 
tion, sharply  exultant,  might  have  produced 
defiance;  but  before  anything  so  ugly  could 
happen  another  process  had  insidiously  fore- 
stalled it.  The  moment  at  which  this  pro- 
cess had  begun  to  mature  was  that  of  Mrs. 
Wix's  breaking  out  with  a  dignity  attuned 
to  their  own  apartments  and  with  an  advan- 
tage now  measurably  gained.  They  had 
ordered  coffee,  after  luncheon,  in  the  spirit 
of  Sir  Claude's  provision,  and  it  was  served 
to  them  while  they  awaited  their  equipage 


358        WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

in  the  white  and  gold  salon.  It  was  flanked 
moreover  with  a  couple  of  liqueurs,  and 
Maisie  felt  that  Sir  Claude  could  scarce 
have  been  taken  more  at  his  word  had  it 
been  followed  by  anecdotes  and  cigarettes. 
The  influence  of  these  luxuries  was  at  any 
rate  in  the  air;  it  seemed  to  her,  while  she 
tiptoed  at  the  chimney -glass,  pulling  on  her 
gloves  and,  with  a  motion  of  her  head,  shak- 
ing a  feather  into  place,  to  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  Mrs.  Wix's  suddenly  say- 
ing: "Haven't  you  really  and  truly  any 
moral  sense?  " 

Maisie  was  aware  that  her  answer,  though 
it  brought  her  down  to  her  heels,  was  vague 
even  to  imbecility  and  that  this  was  the  first 
time  she  had  appeared  to  practise  with  Mrs. 
Wix  an  intellectual  inaptitude  to  meet  her 
—  the  infirmity  to  which  she  had  owed  so 
much  success  with  papa  and  mamma.  The 
appearance  did  her  injustice,  for  it  was  not 
less  through  her  candor  than  through  her 
playfellow's  pressure  that,  after  this,  the 
idea  of  a  moral  sense  mainly  colored  their 
intercourse.  She  began,  the  poor  child, 
with  scarcely  knowing  what  it  was;  but  it 
proved  something  that,  with  scarce  an  out- 
ward sign  save  her  surrender  to  the  swing 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW       359 

of  the  carriage,  she  could,  before  they  came 
back  from  their  drive,  strike  up  a  sort  of 
acquaintance  with.  The  beauty  of  the  day 
only  deepened,  and  the  splendor  of  the  after- 
noon sea,  and  the  haze  of  the  far  headlands, 
and  the  taste  of  the  sweet  air.  It  was  the 
coachman  indeed  who,  smiling  and  crack- 
ing his  whip,  turning  in  his  place,  pointing 
to  invisible  objects  and  uttering  unintel- 
ligible sounds  —  all,  our  tourists  recognized, 
strict  features  of  a  social  order  principally 
devoted  to  language;  it  was  this  charming 
character  who  made  their  excursion  fall  so 
much  short  that  their  return  left  them  still  a 
stretch  of  the  long  daylight  and  an  hour 
that,  at  his  obliging  suggestion,  they  spent 
on  foot  on  the  shining  sands.  Maisie  had 
seen  the  plage  the  day  before  with  Sir 
Claude,  but  that  was  a  reason  the  more  for 
showing  on  the  spot  to  Mrs.  Wix,  that  it 
was,  as  she  said,  another  of  the  places  on 
her  list,  and  of  the  things  of  which  she 
knew  the  French  name.  The  bathers,  so 
late,  were  absent,  and  the  tide  was  low ;  the 
sea-pools  twinkled  in  the  sunset,  and  there 
were  dry  places,  as  well,  where  they  could 
sit  again  and  admire  and  expatiate:  a  cir- 
cumstance that,  while  they  listened  to  the 


360      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

lap  of  the  waves,  gave  Mrs.  Wix  a  fresh  ful- 
crum for  her  challenge.  "Have  you  abso- 
lutely none  at  all  ?  " 

She  had  no  need  now,  as  to  the  question 
itself  at  least,  to  be  specific;  that,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  the  eventual  result  of  their 
quiet  conjoined  apprehension  of  the  thing 
that  —  well,  yes,  since  they  must  face  it  — 
Maisie  absolutely  and  appallingly  had  so 
little  of.  This  marked  more  particularly  the 
moment  of  the  child's  perceiving  that  her 
friend  had  risen  to  a  level  which  might  — • 
till  superseded,  at  all  events  —  pass  almost 
for  sublime.  Nothing  more  remarkable  had 
taken  place  in  the  first  heat  of  her  own  depar- 
ture, no  phenomenon  of  perception  more  in- 
scrutable by  our  rough  method,  than  her 
vision,  the  rest  of  that  Boulogne  day,  of  the 
manner  in  which  she  figured.  I  so  despair 
of  tracing  her  steps  that  I  must  crudely 
give  you  my  word  for  its  being,  from  this 
time  on,  a  picture  literally  present  to  her. 
Mrs.  Wix  saw  her  as  a  little  person  knowing 
so  extraordinarily  much  that,  for  the  account 
to  be  taken  of  it,  what  she  still  did  n't  know 
would  be  ridiculous  if  it  had  n't  been  embar- 
rassing. Mrs.  Wix  was  in  truth  more  than 
ever  qualified  to  meet  embarrassment ;  I  am 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      361 

not  sure  that  Maisie  had  not  even  a  dim  dis- 
cernment of  the  queer  law  of  her  own  life 
that  made  her  educate  to  that  sort  of  pro- 
ficiency those  elders  with  whom  she  was 
concerned.  She  promoted,  as  it  were,  their 
development :  nothing  could  have  been  more 
marked,  for  instance,  than  her  success  in 
promoting  Mrs.  Beale's.  She  judged  that 
if  her  whole  history,  for  Mrs.  Wix,  had 
been  the  successive  stages  of  her  knowledge, 
so  the  very  climax  of  the  concatenation 
would,  in  the  same  view,  be  the  stage  at 
which  the  knowledge  should  overflow.  As 
she  was  condemned  to  know  more  and  more, 
how  could  it  logically  stop  before  she  should 
know  Most  ?  It  came  to  her,  in  fact,  as  they 
sat  there  on  the  sands,  that  she  was  dis- 
tinctly on  the  road  to  know  Everything.  She 
had  not  had  governesses  for  nothing:  what 
in  the  world  had  she  ever  done  but  learn 
and  learn  and  learn?  She  looked  at  the  pink 
sky  with  a  placid  foreboding  that  she  soon 
would  have  learnt  All.  They  lingered  in  the 
flushed  air  till  at  last  it  turned  to  gray  and 
she  seemed  fairly  to  receive  new  information 
from  every  brush  of  the  breeze.  By  the  time 
they  moved  homeward  it  was  as  if,  for  Mrs. 
Wix,  this  inevitability  had  become  a  long, 


362      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

tense  cord,  twitched  by  a  nervous  hand,  on 
which  the  counted  pearls  of  intelligence 
were  to  be  neatly  strung. 

In  the  evening,  upstairs,  they  had  another 
strange  session,  as  to  which  Maisie  could 
not  afterwards  have  told  you  whether  it  was 
bang  in  the  middle  or  quite  at  the  beginning 
that  her  companion  sounded  with  fresh 
emphasis  the  note  of  the  moral  sense.  What 
mattered  was  merely  that  she  did  exclaim, 
and  again,  as  at  first  appeared,  most  dis- 
connectedly: "God  help  me,  it  does  seem 
to  peep  out ! "  Oh,  the  queer  confusions 
that  had  wooed  it  at  last  to  such  peeping !  — 
none  so  queer,  however,  as  the  words  of  woe, 
and  it  might  verily  be  said  of  rage,  in  which 
the  poor  lady  bewailed  the  tragic  end  of  her 
own  rich  ignorance.  There  was  a  point  at 
which  she  seized  the  child  and  hugged  her 
as  close  as  in  the  old  days  of  partings  and 
returns ;  at  which  she  was  visibly  at  a  loss 
how  to  make  up  to  such  a  victim  for  such 
contaminations;  appealing,  as  to  what  she 
had  done  and  was  doing,  in  bewilderment, 
in  explanation,  in  supplication,  for  reassur- 
ance, for  pardon  and  even,  outright,  for  pity. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  've  said  to  you,  my 
own;  I  don't  know  what  I  'm  saying  or  what 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      363 

the  turn  you  've  given  my  life  has  rendered 
me,  heaven  forgive  me,  capable  of  saying. 
Have  I  lost  all  delicacy,  all  decency,  all 
measure  of  how  far  and  how  bad  —  ?  It 
seems  to  me,  mostly,  that  I  have,  though 
I  'm  the  last  of  whom  you  ever  would  have 
thought  it.  I  've  just  done  it  for  you,  pre- 
cious —  not  to  lose  you,  which  would  have 
been  worst  of  all :  so  that  I  've  had  to  pay 
with  my  own  innocence  —  if  you  do  laugh ! 

—  for   clinging  to   you    and   keeping   you. 
Don't  let  me  pay  for  nothing;  don't  let  me 
have  been  thrust  for  nothing  into  such  hor- 
rors and  such  shames.      I  never  knew  any- 
thing  about   them,   and  I    never  wanted   to 
know !     Now  I  know  too  much,  too  much ! " 

—  the  poor  woman    lamented  and  groaned. 
"  I  know  so  much  that,  with  hearing  such 
talk,   I  ask  myself  where   I  am ;  and,  with 
uttering  it  too,  which  is  worse,  say  to  myself 
that  I  'm  far,  too  far,  from  where  I  started ! 
I  ask   myself  what  I  should  have  thought, 
with  my  lost  one,  if  I  had  heard  myself  cross 
the  line !     There  are  lines  I  've  crossed  with 
you  that  I  should  have  fancied  I  had  come  to 
a  pretty  pass — !"     She  gasped  at  the  mere 
supposition.     "  I  've  gone  from  one  thing  to 
another,  and  all  for  the  real  love  of  you ;  and 


364      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

now  what  would  any  one  say — I  mean  any 
one  but  them  —  if  they  were  to  hear  the  way 
I  go  on  ?  I  've  had  to  keep  up  with  you, 
haven't  I?  —  and  therefore  what  could  I  do 
less  than  look  to  you  to  keep  up  with  me? 
But  it 's  not  them  that  are  the  worst  —  by 
which  I  mean  to  say  it 's  not  him:  it 's  your 
dreadfully  base  papa  and  the  one  person  in 
the  world  whom  he  could  have  found,  I  do 
believe  —  and  she's  not  the  Countess,  duck! 
—  wickeder  than  himself.  While  they  were 
about  it,  at  any  rate,  since  they  were  ruining 
you,  they  might  have  done  it  so  as  to  spare 
an  honest  woman.  Then  I  should  n't  have 
had  to  do  —  whatever  it  is  that 's  the  worst: 
throw  up  at  you  the  badness  you  have  n't 
taken  in,  or  find  my  advantage  in  the  vile- 
ness  you  have  !  What  I  did  lose  patience  at 
this  morning  was  at  how  it  was  without  your 
seeming  to  condemn — for  you  didn't,  you 
remember!  —  you  yet  did  seem  to  know. 
Thank  God  in  his  mercy,  at  last,  if  you  do ! " 
The  night,  this  time,  was  warm,  and  one 
of  the  windows  stood  open  to  the  small  bal- 
cony, over  the  rail  of  which,  on  coming  up 
from  dinner,  Maisie  had  hung  a  long  time 
in  the  enjoyment  of  the  chatter,  the  lights, 
the  life  of  the  quay  made  brilliant  by  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      365 

season  and  the  hour.  Mrs.  Wix's  require- 
ments had  drawn  her  in  from  this  posture  and 
Mrs.  Wix's  embrace  had  detained  her,  even 
though,  midway  in  the  outpouring,  her  con- 
fusion and  sympathy  had  permitted,  or  rather 
had  positively  helped,  her  to  disengage  her- 
self. But  the  casement  was  still  wide,  the 
spectacle,  the  pleasure  was  still  there,  and 
from  her  place  in  the  room,  which,  with 
its  polished  floor  and  its  panels  of  elegance, 
was  lighted  from  without  more  than  from 
within,  the  child  could  still  take  account  of 
them.  She  appeared  to  watch  and  listen; 
after  which  she  answered  Mrs.  Wix  with  a 
question.  "  If  I  do  know  —  ?  " 

"If  you  do  condemn."  The  correction 
was  made  with  some  austerity. 

It  had  the  effect  of  causing  Maisie  to 
heave  a  vague  sigh  of  oppression  and  then, 
after  an  instant  and  as  if  under  cover  of 
this  ambiguity,  to  pass  out  again  upon  the 
balcony.  She  hung  again  over  the  rail ;  she 
felt  the  summer  night;  she  dropped  down 
into  the  manners  of  France.  There  was  a 
cafe  below  the  hotel,  before  which,  with 
little  chairs  and  tables,  people  sat  on  a 
space  enclosed  by  plants  in  tubs;  and  the 
impression  was  enriched  by  the  flash  of  the 


366      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

white  aprons  of  waiters  and  the  music  of  a 
man  and  a  woman  who,  from  beyond  the 
precinct,  sent  up  the  strum  of  a  guitar  and 
the  drawl  of  a  song  about  "amour."  Maisie 
knew  what  "amour"  meant  too,  and  won- 
dered if  Mrs.  Wix  did :  Mrs.  Wix  remained 
within,  as  still  as  a  mouse  and  perhaps  not 
reached  by  the  performance.  After  a  while, 
but  not  till  the  musicians  had  ceased  and 
begun  to  circulate  with  a  little  plate,  her 
pupil  came  back  to  her.  "Is  it  a  crime?" 
Maisie  then  asked. 

Mrs.  Wix  was  as  prompt  as  if  she  had 
been  crouching  in  a  lair.  "  Branded  by  the 
Bible." 

"Well,  he  won't  commit  a  crime." 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  at  her  gloomily.  "  He  's 
committing  one  now." 

"Now?" 

"In  being  with  her." 

Maisie  had  it  on  her  tongue's  end  to  re- 
turn once  more :  "But  now  he's  free;"  she 
remembered,  however,  in  time,  that  one  of 
the  things  she  had  known  for  the  last  entire 
hour  was  that  this  made  no  difference. 
After  that,  and  as  if  to  turn  the  right  way, 
she  was  on  the  point  of  a  blind  dash,  a  weak 
reversion  to  the  reminder  that  it  might  make 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      367 

a  difference,  might  diminish  the  crime,  for 
Mrs.  Beale;  till  such  a  reflection  was  in  its 
order  also  quashed  by  the  visibility  in  Mrs. 
Wix's  face  of  the  collapse  produced  by  her 
inference  from  her  pupil's  manner  that,  after 
all  her  pains,  her  pupil  did  n't  even  yet  ade- 
quately understand.  Never  so  much  as 
when  just  so  confronted  had  Maisie  wanted 
to  understand,  and  all  her  thought  for  a 
minute  centred  in  the  effort  to  come  out 
with  something  which  should  be  a  disproof 
of  her  simplicity.  "Just  trust  me,  dear: 
that 's  all !  "  —  she  came  out  finally  with  that ; 
and  it  was  perhaps  a  good  sign  of  her  action 
that,  with  a  long,  impartial  moan,  Mrs.  Wix 
floated  her  to  bed. . 

There  was  no  letter  the  next  morning  from 
Sir  Claude  —  which  Mrs.  Wix  let  out  that 
she  deemed  the  worst  of  omens;  yet  it  was 
just  for  the  quieter  communion  they  so  got 
from  him  that  when,  after  the  coffee  and 
rolls  which  made  them  more  foreign  than 
ever,  it  came  to  going  forth  for  fresh  drafts 
upon  his  credit,  they  wandered  again  up  the 
hill  to  the  rampart  instead  of  plunging  into 
distraction  with  the  crowd  on  the  sands  or 
into  the  sea  with  the  semi-nude  bathers. 
They  gazed  once  more  at  their  gilded  Virgin ; 


368      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

they  sank   once  more   upon   their  battered 
bench;    they  felt  once  more  their  distance 
from  the  Regent's  Park.     At  last  Mrs.  Wix 
became  definite  about  their  friend's  silence. 
"  He  is  afraid  of  her !     She  has  forbidden 
him  to  write. "     The  fact  of  his  fear  Maisie 
already  knew;  but  her  companion's  mention 
of   it  had  at  this  moment   two   unexpected 
results.     The  first  was   her  wondering,   in 
dumb  remonstrance,  how  Mrs.  Wix,  with  a 
devotion  not,  after  all,  inferior  to  her  own, 
could  put  into  such  an  allusion  such  a  grim- 
ness  of  derision;   the  second  was  that  she 
found  herself   suddenly  drop   into  a  deeper 
view  of  it.     She  too  had  been  afraid,  as  we 
have  seen,  of  the  people  of  whom  Sir  Claude 
was  afraid,  and  by  that  law  she  had  had  her 
due  measure  of  latent  apprehension  of  Mrs. 
Beale.     What  occurred  at  present,  however, 
was  that,   whereas   this    sympathy  appeared 
vain  as  for  him,    the  ground  of   it  loomed 
dimly  as  a  reason  for  selfish  alarm.     That 
uneasiness  had    not   carried    her  far   before 
Mrs.  Wix  spoke  again,  and  with  an  abrupt- 
ness so  great  as  almost  to  seem  irrelevant. 
"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  be  jealous 
of  her?" 

It  never  had,  in  the  least ;  yet  the  words 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      369 

were  scarce  in  the  air  before  Maisie  had 
jumped  at  them.  She  held  them  well,  she 
looked  at  them  hard;  at  last  she  brought 
out  with  an  assurance  which  there  was  no 
one,  alas,  but  herself  to  admire:  "Well, 
yes  —  since  you  ask  me."  She  hesitated, 
then  continued :  "  Lots  of  times !  " 

Mrs.  Wix  glared  an  instant  askance ;  such 
approval  as  her  look  expressed  was  not 
wholly  unqualified.  It  expressed,  at  any 
rate,  something  that  presumably  had  to  do 
with  her  saying  once  more :  "  Yes,  he 's 
afraid  of  her." 

Maisie  heard,  and  it  had  afresh  its  effect 
on  her,  even  through  the  blur  of  the  atten- 
tion now  required  by  the  possibility  of  that 
idea  of  jealousy  —  a  possibility  created  only 
by  her  feeling  that  she  had  thus  found  the 
way  to  show  she  was  not  simple.  It  stuck 
out  of  Mrs.  Wix  that  this  lady  still  believed 
her  moral  sense  to  be  interested  and  feigned ; 
so  what  could  be  such  a  gage  of  her  sincerity 
as  a  peep  of  the  most  restless  of  the  pas- 
sions? Such  a  revelation  would  baffle  dis- 
couragement, and  discouragement  was  in 
fact  so  baffled  that,  helped  in  some  degree 
by  the  mere  intensity  of  their  need  to  hope, 
which  also,  according  to  its  nature,  sprang 
24 


370      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

from  the  dark  portent  of  the  absent  letter, 
the  real  pitch  of  their  morning  was  reached 
by  the  note,  not  of  mutual  scrutiny,  but  of 
unprecedented  frankness.  There  were  brood- 
ings  indeed  and  silences,  and  Maisie  sank 
deeper  into  the  vision  that  for  her  friend 
she  was,  at  the  most,  superficial,  and  that 
also,  positively,  she  was  the  more  so  the 
more  she  tried  to  appear  complete.  Was 
the  sum  of  all  knowledge  only  to  know  how 
little,  in  this  presence,  one  would  ever 
reach  it?  The  answer  to  that  question 
luckily  lost  itself  in  the  brightness  suffus- 
ing the  scene  as  soon  as  Maisie  had  thrown 
out,  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Beale,  such  a  remark 
as  she  had  never  dreamed  she  should  live  to 
make.  "If  I  thought  she  was  unkind  to 
him  —  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do !  " 

Mrs.  Wix  dropped  one  of  her  squints ;  she 
even  confirmed  it  by  a  wild  grunt.  "  I  know 
what /should!" 

Maisie,  at  this,  felt  that  she  lagged. 
"Well,  I  can  think  of  one  thing." 

Mrs.  Wix  more  directly  challenged  her. 
"What  is  it,  then?" 

Maisie  met  her  expression  as  if  it  were  a 
game  with  forfeits  for  winking.  "I'd  kill 
her ! "  That,  at  least,  she  hoped  as  she 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      371 

looked  away,  would  guarantee  her  moral 
sense!  She  looked  away,  but  her  compan- 
ion said  nothing  for  so  long  that  she  at  last 
turned  her  head  again.  Then  she  saw  the 
straighteners  all  blurred  with  tears  which, 
after  a  little,  seemed  to  have  sprung  from 
her  own  eyes.  There  were  tears  in  fact  on 
both  sides  of  the  spectacles,  and  they  were 
even  so  thick  that  it  was  presently  all  Maisie 
could  do  to  make  out  through  them  that 
slowly,  finally,  Mrs.  Wix  put  forth  a  hand. 
It  was  the  material  pressure  that  settled  that, 
and  even,  at  the  end  of  some  minutes,  more 
things  besides.  It  settled  in  its  own  way 
one  thing  in  particular,  which,  though  often 
between  them,  heaven  knows,  hovered  round 
and  hung  over,  was  yet  to  be  established 
without  the  shadow  of  an  attenuating  smile. 
Oh,  there  was  no  gleam  of  levity,  as  little 
of  humor  as  of  deprecation,  in  the  long 
time  they  now  sat  together,  or  in  the  way  in 
which,  at  some  unmeasured  point  of  it,  Mrs. 
Wix  became  distinct  enough  for  her  own  dig- 
nity and  yet  not  loud  enough  for  the  snoozing 
old  women. 

"  I  adore  him.     I  adore  him." 

Maisie  took  it  well  in ;  so  well  that  in  a 
moment  more  she  would  have  answered,  pro- 


372      WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW 

foundly,  "So  do  I!"  But  before  that 
moment  passed  something  took  place  that 
brought  other  words  to  her  lips;  nothing 
more,  very  possibly,  than  the  closer  con- 
sciousness, in  her  hand,  of  the  significance 
of  Mrs.  Wix's.  Their  hands  remained 
linked  in  unutterable  sign  of  their  union, 
and  what  Maisie  at  last  said  was,  simply  and 
serenely :  "  Oh,  I  know ! " 

Their  hands  were  so  linked  and  their 
union  was  so  confirmed  that  it  took  the  far, 
deep  note  of  a  bell,  borne  to  them  on  the 
summer  air,  to  call  them  back  to  a  sense  of 
hours  and  proprieties.  They  had  touched 
bottom  and  melted  together,  but  they  gave  a. 
start  at  last;  the  bell  was  the  voice  of  the 
inn,  and  the  inn  was  the  image  of  luncheon. 
They  should  be  late  for  it ;  they  got  up ;  and 
their  quickened  step,  on  the  return,  had 
something  of  the  swing  of  confidence.  When 
they  reached  the  hotel  the  table  d hdte  had 
begun:  this  was  clear  from  the  threshold, 
clear  from  the  absence,  in  the  hall  and  on 
the  stairs,  of  the  "personnel,"  as  Mrs.  Wix 
said  —  she  had  picked  that\x$  —  all  collected 
in  the  dining-room.  They  mounted  to  their 
apartments  for  a  brush  before  the  glass,  and 
it  was  Maisie  who,  in  passing  and  from  a 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW     373 

vain  impulse,  threw  open  the  white  and  gold 
door.  She  was  thus  first  to  utter  the  sound 
that  brought  Mrs.  Wix  almost  on  the  top  of 
her,  as,  by  the  other  accident,  it  would  have 
brought  her  on  the  top  of  Mrs.  Wix.  It  had 
at  any  rate  the  effect  of  leaving  them 
bunched  together  in  a  strained  stare  at  their 
new  situation.  This  situation  had  put  on, 
in  a  flash,  the  bright  form  of  Mrs.  Beale: 
she  stood  there  in  her  hat  and  her  jacket, 
amid  bags  and  shawls,  smiling  and  holding 
out  her  arms.  If  she  had  just  arrived  it  was 
a  different  figure  from  either  of  the  two  that, 
for  their  benefit,  wan  and  tottering  and  none 
too  soon  to  save  life,  the  Channel  had  re- 
cently disgorged.  She  was  as  lovely  as  the 
day  that  had  brought  her  over,  as  fresh  as 
the  luck  and  the  health  that  attended  her; 
it  came  to  Maisie  on  the  spot  that  she  was 
more  beautiful  than  she  had  ever  been. 
All  this  was  too  quick  to  count,  but  there 
was  still  time  in  it  to  give  the  child  the  sense 
of  what  had  kindled  the  light.  That  leaped 
out  of  the  open  arms,  the  open  eyes,  the  open 
mouth;  it  leaped  out  with  Mrs.  Beale's  loud 
cry  at  her :  "I'm  free,  I  'm  free ! " 


374      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 


XXVII 

THE  greatest  wonder  of  all  was  the  way  the 
announcement,  so  far  as  could  be  judged, 
was  launched  predominantly  at  Mrs.  Wix, 
who,  as  if  from  sudden  failure  of  strength, 
sank  into  a  chair  while  Maisie  surrendered 
to  the  visitor's  embrace.  As  soon  as  the 
child  was  liberated  she  met,  with  profundity, 
Mrs.  Wix's  stupefaction  and  actually  was 
able  to  see  that,  while  in  a  manner  sustain- 
ing the  encounter,  her  face  yet  seemed  with 
intensity  to  say:  "Now,  for  God's  sake, 
don't  crow  '  I  told  you  so  ! ' '  Maisie  was 
somehow  on  the  spot  aware  of  an  absence  of 
disposition  to  crow;  it  had  taken  her  but  an 
extra  minute  to  arrive  at  such  a  quick  sur- 
vey of  the  objects  surrounding  Mrs.  Beale  as 
showed  that  among  them  was  no  appurte- 
nance of  Sir  Claude's.  She  knew  his 
dressing-bag  now  —  oh,  with  the  fondest 
knowledge !  —  and  there  was  an  instant  dur- 
ing which  its  not  being  there  was  a  stroke  of 
the  worst  news.  She  was  yet  to  learn  what 
it  could  be  to  recognize  in  some  perception 
of  a  gap  the  sign  of  extinction,  and  therefore 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      375 

remained  unaware  that  this  momentary  pang 
was  a  foretaste  of  the  experience  of  death. 
It  passed  in  a  flash,  of  course,  with  Mrs. 
Beale's  brightness  and  with  her  own  instant 
appeal.  "  You  ' ve  come  alone  ?  " 

"  Without  Sir  Claude  ?  "  Strangely,  Mrs. 
Beale  looked  even  brighter.  "Yes;  in  the 
eagerness  to  get  at  you.  You  abominable 
little  villain  ! "  —  and  her  stepmother,  laugh- 
ing clear,  administered  to  her  cheek  a  pat 
that  was  partly  a  pinch.  "What  were  you 
up  to  and  what  did  you  take  me  for?  But 
I  'm  glad  to  be  abroad,  and,  after  all,  it 's 
you  who  have  shown  me  the  way.  I  might  n't, 
without  you,  have  been  able  to  come;  that 
is,  so  soon.  Well,  here  I  am,  at  any  rate, 
and  in  a  moment  more  I  should  have  begun 
to  worry  about  you.  This  will  do  very 
well  "  —  she  was  good-natured  about  the 
place  and  presently  added  that  it  was  nice 
and  Frenchy.  But  with  a  rosier  glow  she 
made  again  her  great  point :  "  I  'm  free,  I  'm 
free ! "  Maisie  made,  on  her  side,  her  own : 
she  carried  back  her  gaze  to  Mrs.  Wix,  whom 
amazement  continued  to  hold;  she  drew, 
afresh,  her  old  friend's  attention  to  the 
superior  way  she  did  n't  take  that  up.  What 
she  did  take  up,  the  next  minute,  was  the 


376      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

question  of  Sir  Claude.  "Where  is  he? 
Won't  he  come?" 

Mrs.  Beale's  consideration  of  this  oscil- 
lated, with  a  smile,  between  the  two  expec- 
tancies with  which  she  was  flanked :  it  was 
conspicuous,  it  was  extraordinary,  her  un- 
blinking acceptance  of  Mrs.  Wix,  a  miracle 
of  which  Maisie  had  even  now  begun  to  read 
a  reflection  in  that  lady's  long  visage. 
"  He  '11  come,  but  we  must  make  him  !  "  she 
gayly  brought  forth. 

"  Make  him  ? "  Maisie  echoed. 

"We  must  give  him  time;  we  must  play 
our  cards. " 

"But  he  promised  us,  awfully,"  Maisie 
replied. 

"My  dear  child,  he  has  promised  me 
awfully;  I  mean  lots  of  things,  and  not,  in 
every  case,  kept  his  promise  to  the  letter." 
Mrs.  Beale's  good  humor  insisted  on  taking 
for  granted  Mrs.  Wix's,  to  whom  her  atten- 
tion had  suddenly  grown  prodigious.  "  I 
dare  say  he  has  done  the  same  with  you  and 
not  always  come  to  time.  But  he  makes  it 
up  in  his  own  way;  and  it  isn't  as  if  we 
did  n't  know  exactly  what  he  is.  There  's  one 
thing  he  is,"  she  went  on,  "which  makes 
everything  else  only  a  question,  for  us,  of 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      377 

tact. "  They  scarce  had  time  to  wonder  what 
this  was  before  it  was,  as  they  might  have 
said  right  there.  "He's  as  free  as  I  am !  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Maisie;  as  if,  how- 
ever, independently  weighing  the  value  of 
that.  She  really  weighed  also  the  oddity  of 
her  stepmother's  treating  it  as  news  to  her> 
who  had  been  the  first  person,  literally,  to 
whom  Sir  Claude  had  mentioned  it.  For  a 
few  seconds,  as  if  with  the  sound  of  it  in  her 
ears,  she  stood  with  him  again,  in  memory 
and  in  the  twilight,  in  the  hotel  garden  at 
Folkestone. 

Anything  Mrs.  Beale  overlooked  was,  she 
indeed  divined,  but  the  effect  of  an  exalta- 
tion of  high  spirits,  a  tendency  to  soar  that 
showed  even  when  she  dropped  —  still  quite 
impartially  —  almost  to  the  confidential. 
"  Well,  then  —  we  've  only  to  wait.  He 
can't  do  without  us  long.  I  'm  sure,  Mrs. 
Wix,  he  can't  do  without  you  !  He's  devoted 
to  you ;  he  has  told  me  so  much  about  you. 
The  extent  I  count  on  you,  you  know,  count 
on  you  to  help  me !  "  —  was  an  extent  that 
even  all  her  radiance  could  n't  express. 
What  it  couldn't  express,  quite  as  much  as 
what  it  could,  made  at  any  rate,  every  in- 
stant, her  presence,  and  even  her  famous 


378      WHAT  MAISIE   KNEW 

freedom,  loom  larger;  and  it  was  this  mighty 
mass  that  once  more  led  her  companions, 
bewildered  and  scattered,  to  exchange  with 
each  other,  as  through  a  thickening  veil, 
confused  and  ineffectual  signs.  They  clung 
together,  at  least,  on  the  common  ground  of 
unpreparedness,  and  Maisie  watched  with- 
out relief  the  havoc  of  wonder  in  Mrs.  Wix. 
It  had  reduced  her  to  perfect  impotence,  and, 
but  that  gloom  was  black  upon  her,  she  sat 
as  if  fascinated  by  Mrs.  Beale's  high  style. 
It  had  plunged  her  into  a  long  deep  hush ; 
for  what  had  happened  was  the  thing  she 
had  least  allowed  for  and  before  which  the 
particular  rigor  she  had  worked  up  could 
only  grow  limp  and  sick.  Sir  Claude  was  to 
have  reappeared  with  his  accomplice  or  with- 
out her;  never,  never  his  accomplice  without 
him.  Mrs.  Beale  had  gained,  apparently, 
by  this  time,  an  advantage  she  could  pursue : 
she  looked  at  the  droll,  dumb  figure  with 
jesting  reproach.  "You  really  won't  shake 
hands  with  me?  Never  mind;  you'll  come 
round!"  She  put  the  matter  to  no  test, 
going  on  immediately  and,  instead  of  offer- 
ing her  hand,  making  it,  with  a  pretty  gesture 
that  her  head  bent  to,  reach  a  long  pin  that 
played  a  part  in  her  back  hair.  "  Are  hats 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      379 

worn  at  luncheon  ?     If  you  're  as  hungry  as  I 
am  we  must  go  right  down. " 

Mrs.  Wix  stuck  fast,  but  she  met  the 
question  in  a  voice  her  pupil  scarce  recog- 
nized. "I  wear  mine." 

Mrs.  Beale,  swallowing  at  one  glance  her 
bran-new  bravery,  which  she  appeared  at 
once  to  refer  to  its  origin  and  to  follow  in 
its  flights,  accepted  this  as  conclusive. 
"  Oh,  but  I  've  not  such  a  beauty !  "  Then 
she  turned  rejoicingly  to  Maisie.  "  I  've 
got  a  beauty  for  you,  my  dear. " 

"A  beauty?" 

"  A  love  of  a  hat  —  in  my  luggage.  I  re- 
membered that "  —  she  nodded  at  the  object 
on  her  stepdaughter's  head  —  "and  I've 
brought  you  one  with  a  peacock's  breast. 
It's  the  most  gorgeous  blue!" 

It  was  too  strange,  this  talking  with  her 
there  already  not  about  Sir  Claude,  but  about 
peacocks  —  too  strange  for  the  child  to  have 
the  presence  of  mind  to  thank  her.  But  the 
felicity  in  which  she  had  arrived  was  so 
proof  against  everything  that  Maisie  felt 
more  and  more  the  depth  of  the  purpose  that 
must  underlie  it.  She  had  a  vague  sense  of 
its  being  abysmal,  the  spirit  with  which  Mrs. 
Beale  carried  off  the  awkwardness,  in  the 


380      WHAT  MAISIE   KNEW 

white  and  gold  salon,  of  such  a  want  of 
breath  and  of  welcome.  Mrs.  Wix  was  more 
breathless  than  ever;  the  embarrassment  of 
Mrs.  Beale's  isolation  was  as  nothing  to  the 
embarrassment  of  her  grace.  The  percep- 
tion of  this  dilemma  was  the  germ,  on  the 
child's  part,  of  a  new  question  altogether. 
What  if,  with  this  indulgence  —  ?  But  the 
idea  lost  itself  in  something  too  frightened 
for  hope  and  too  conjectured  for  fear;  and 
while  everything  went  by  leaps  and  bounds 
one  of  the  waiters  stood  at  the  door  to 
remind  them  that  the  table  d'hdte  was  half 
over. 

"  Had  you  come  up  to  wash  hands  ?  "  Mrs. 
Beale  hereupon  asked  them.  "  Go  and  do  it 
quickly,  and  I  '11  be  with  you;  they've  put 
my  boxes  in  that  nice  room  —  it  was  Sir 
Claude's.  Trust  him,"  she  laughed,  "to 
have  a  good  one ! "  The  door  of  a  neigh- 
boring room  stood  open,  and  now,  from  the 
threshold,  addressing  herself  again  to  Mrs. 
Wix,  she  sent  a  note  flying  that  gave  the  very 
key  of  what,  as  she  would  have  said,  she 
was  up  to.  "Dear  lady,  please  attend  to 
my  daughter." 

She  was  up  to  a  change  of  deportment  so 
complete  that  it  represented  —  oh,  for  offices 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      381 

still  honorably  subordinate,  if  not  too  ex- 
plicitly menial  —  an  absolute  coercion,  an 
interested  clutch,  of  the  old  woman's  re- 
spectability. There  was  response,  for 
Maisie's  mind,  I  may  say  at  once,  in  the 
jump  of  that  respectability  to  its  feet;  it 
was  itself  capable  of  one  of  the  leaps,  one 
of  the  bounds  just  mentioned,  and  it  carried 
its  charge,  with  this  momentum  and  while 
Mrs.  Beale  popped  into  Sir  Claude's  cham- 
ber, straight  away  to  where,  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  pupil  and  governess  were  quartered. 
The  greatest  stride  of  all,  for  that  matter, 
was  that  within  a  few  seconds  the  pupil  had, 
in  another  relation,  been  converted  into  a 
daughter.  Maisie's  eyes  were  still  following 
it  when,  after  the  rush,  with  the  door  almost 
slammed  and  no  thought  of  soap  and  towels, 
the  pair  stood  face  to  face.  Mrs.  Wix,  in 
this  position,  was  the  first  to  gasp  a  sound. 
"  Can  it  ever  be  that  she  has  one  ?  " 

Maisie  felt  still  more  bewildered.  "  One 
what  ? " 

"Why,  moral  sense." 

They  spoke  as  if  you  might  have  two,  but 
Mrs.  Wix  looked  as  if  it  were  not  altogether 
a  happy  thought,  and  Maisie  didn't  see  how 
even  an  affirmative  from  her  own  lips  would 


382      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

clear  up  what  had  become  most  of  a  mys- 
tery. It  was  to  this  she  sprang  pretty 
straight.  "  Is  she  my  mother  now  ? " 

It  was  a  point  as  to  which  an  horrific 
glimpse  of  the  responsibility  of  an  opinion 
appeared  to  affect  Mrs.  Wix  like  a  blow  in 
the  stomach.  She  had  evidently  never 
thought  of  it;  but  she  could  think  and  re- 
bound. "If  she  is,  he's  equally  your 
father." 

Maisie,  however,  thought  further.  "  Then 
my  father  and  my  mother  — ! " 

But  she  had  already  faltered  and  Mrs. 
Wix  had  already  glared  back.  "  Ought  to 
live  together?  Don't  begin  it  again!"  She 
turned  away  with  a  groan,  to  reach  the 
washing-stand,  and  Maisie  could  by  this 
time  recognize  with  a  certain  ease  that  that 
way,  verily,  madness  did  lie.  Mrs.  Wix 
gave  a  great  untidy  splash,  but  the  next 
instant  had  faced  round.  "  She  has  taken  a 
new  line." 

"She  was  nice  to  you,"  Maisie  concurred. 

"  What  she  thinks  so  —  *  Go  and  dress 
the  young  lady. '  But  it  's  something !  "  she 
panted.  Then  she  thought  out  the  rest. 
"  If  he  won't  have  her,  why  she  '11 
/ be  the  one." 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      383 

"  The  one  to  keep  me  abroad  ?  " 

"  The  one  to  give  you  a  home. "  Mrs.  Wix 
saw  further;  she  mastered  all  the  portents. 
"  Oh,  she  's  cruelly  clever !  It 's  not  a  moral 
sense."  She  reached  her  climax.  "It's  a 
game ! " 

"A  game?" 

"  Not  to  lose  him.  She  has  sacrificed  him 
—  to  her  duty. " 

"Then  won't  he  come? "  Maisie  pleaded. 

Mrs.  Wix  made  no  answer;  her  vision 
absorbed  her.  "He  has  fought.  But  she 
has  won." 

"Then  won't  he  come?"  the  child 
repeated. 

Mrs.  Wix  hesitated.  "Yes,  hang  him!" 
She  had  never  been  so  profane. 

For  all  Maisie  minded !  "  Soon  —  to- 
morrow? " 

"  Too  soon — whenever.    Indecently  soon. " 

"  But  then  we  shall  be  together !  "  the  child 
went  on.  It  made  Mrs.  Wix  look  at  her  as 
if  in  exasperation;  but  nothing  had  time  to 
come  before  she  precipitated:  "Together 
with  you  !  "  The  air  of  criticism  continued, 
but  took  voice  only  in  her  companion's 
bidding  her  wash  herself  and  come  down. 
The  silence  of  quick  ablutions  fell  upon 


384      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

them,  presently  broken,  however,  by  one  of 
Maisie's  sudden  reversions.  "Mercy,  isn't 
she  handsome  ? " 

Mrs.  Wix  had  finished;  she  waited. 
"She'll  attract  attention."  They  were 
rapid,  and  it  would  have  been  noticed  that 
the  shock  the  beauty  had  given  them  acted, 
incongruously,  as  a  positive  spur  to  their 
preparations  for  rejoining  her.  She  had, 
none  the  less,  when  they  returned  to  the 
sitting-room,  already  descended;  the  open 
door  of  her  room  showed  it  empty,  and  the 
chambermaid  explained.  Here  again  they 
were  delayed  by  another  sharp  thought  of 
Mrs.  Wix's.  "But  what  will  she  live  on 
meanwhile?  " 

Maisie  stopped  short.  "Till  Sir  Claude 
comes  ? " 

It  was  nothing  to  the  violence  with  which 
her  friend  had  been  arrested.  "Who  '11  pay 
the  bills?" 

Maisie  thought.     "  Can't  she  ?  " 

"  She  ?     She  has  n't  a  penny. " 

The  child  wondered.     "  But  did  n't  papa  ?  " 

"  Leave  her  a  fortune  ? "  Mrs.  Wix  would 
have  appeared  to  speak  of  papa  as  dead  had 
she  not  immediately  added :  "  Why,  he  lives 
on  other  women  ! " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      385 

Oh  yes,  Maisie  remembered.  "Then 
can't  he  send — ?"  She  faltered  again; 
even  to  herself  it  sounded  queer. 

"Some  of  their  money  to  his  wife?" 
Mrs.  Wix  gave  a  laugh  still  stranger  than 
the  weird  suggestion.  "  I  dare  say  she  'd 
take  it!" 

They  hurried  on  again ;  yet  again,  on  the 
stairs,  Maisie  pulled  up.  "Well,  if  she 
had  stopped  in  England ! "  she  threw  out. 

Mrs.  Wix  considered.  "And  he  had 
come  over  instead  ?  " 

"Yes,  as  we  expected."  Maisie  launched 
her  speculation.  "What,  then,  would  she 
have  lived  on? " 

Mrs.  Wix  hung  fire  but  an  instant. 
"  On  other  men ! "  And  she  marched  down- 
stairs. 


XXVIII 

MRS.  BEALE,  at  table  between  the  pair, 
plainly  attracted  the  attention  Mrs.  Wix 
had  foretold.  No  other  lady  present  was 
nearly  so  handsome,  nor  did  the  beauty  of 
any  other  accommodate  itself  with  such  art 
to  the  homage  it  produced.  She  talked 
25 


386      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

mainly  to  her  other  neighbor,  and  that  left 
Maisie  leisure  both  to  note  the  manner  in 
which  eyes  were  riveted  and  nudges  inter- 
changed, and  to  lose  herself  in  the  meanings 
that,  dimly,  as  yet,  and  disconnectedly,  but 
with  a  vividness  that  fed  apprehension,  she 
could  begin  to  read  into  her  stepmother's 
independent  move.  Mrs.  Wix  had  helped 
her  by  talking  of  a  game ;  it  was  a  connec- 
tion in  which  the  move  could  put  on  a  stra- 
tegic air.  Her  notions  of  diplomacy  were 
thin,  but  it  was  a  kind  of  cold  diplomatic 
shoulder  and  an  elbow  of  more  than  usual 
point  that,  temporarily  at  least,  were  pre- 
sented to  her  by  the  averted  inclination  of 
Mrs.  Beale's  head.  There  was  a  phrase 
familiar  to  Maisie,  so  often  was  it  used  by 
this  lady  to  express  the  idea  of  one's  getting 
what  one  wanted :  one  got  it,  Mrs.  Beale 
always  said  —  she,  at  all  events,  always  got 
it  or  proposed  to  get  it  —  by  "  making 
love."  She  was  at  present  making  love, 
singular  as  it  appeared,  to  Mrs.  Wix,  and 
her  young  friend's  mind  had,  as  yet,  never 
moved  in  such  freedom  as  on  finding  itself 
face  to  face  with  the  question  of  what  she 
now  wanted  to  get.  This  period  of  the 
omelette  aux  rognons  and  the  poulet  sautf, 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW      387 

while  her  sole  surviving  parent  fairly  chat- 
tered to  her  governess,  left  Maisie  rather 
wondering  if  her  governess  would  hold  out. 
It  was  strange,  but  she  became  on  the  spot 
quite  as  interested  in  Mrs.  Wix's  moral 
sense  as  Mrs.  Wix  could  possibly  be  in  hers : 
it  had  risen  before  her  so  pressingly  that 
there  was  something  new  for  Mrs.  Wix  to 
resist.  Resisting  Mrs.  Beale  herself  prom- 
ised at  this  rate  to  become  a  very  different 
business  from  resisting  Sir  Claude's  view  of 
her.  More  might  come  of  what  had  hap- 
pened—  whatever  it  was  —  than  Maisie  felt 
she  could  have  expected.  She  put  it  together 
with  a  suspicion  that,  had  she  ever  in  her 
life  had  a  sovereign  changed,  would  have 
resembled  an  impression,  baffled  by  the  want 
of  arithmetic,  that  her  change  was  wrong  — 
she  groped  about  in  it  that  she  had  perhaps 
become  the  victim  of  a  violent  substitution. 
A  victim  was  what  she  should  surely  be  if 
the  issue  between  her  step-parents  had  been 
settled  by  Mrs.  Beale' s  saying:  "Well,  if 
she  can  live  with  but  one  of  us  alone,  with 
which  in  the  world  should  it  be  but  me  ? " 
That  answer  was  far  from  what,  for  days, 
she  had  nursed  herself  in,  and  the  desolation 
of  it  was  deepened  by  the  absence  of  any- 


388      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

thing  from  Sir  Claude  to  show  he  had  not 
had  to  take  it  as  triumphant.  Had  not  Mrs. 
Beale,  upstairs,  as  good  as  given  out  that 
she  had  quitted  him  with  the  snap  of  a  ten- 
sion, left  him,  in  London,  after  some  strug- 
gle as  a  sequel  to  which  her  own  advent 
represented  that  she  had  practically  sacri- 
ficed him  ?  Maisie  assisted  in  fancy  at  the 
episode  in  the  Regent's  Park,  finding  ele- 
ments almost  of  terror  in  the  suggestion  that 
Sir  Claude  had  not  had  fair  play.  They 
drew  something,  as  she  sat  there,  even  from 
the  pride  of  an  association  with  such  beauty 
as  Mrs.  Beale's;  and  the  child  quite  forgot 
that,  though  the  sacrifice  of  Mrs.  Beale  her- 
self was  a  solution  she  had  not  invented,  she 
would  probably  have  seen  Sir  Claude  embark 
upon  it  without  a  direct  remonstrance. 

What  her  stepmother  had  clearly  now 
promised  herself  to  wring  from  Mrs.  Wix 
was  an  assent  to  the  great  modification,  the 
change,  as  smart  as  a  juggler's  trick,  in  the 
interest  of  which  nothing  so  much  mattered 
as  the  new  convenience  of  Mrs.  Beale. 
Maisie  could  positively  seize  the  moral  that 
her  elbow  seemed  to  point  in  ribs  thinly 
defended — the  moral  of  its  not  mattering  a 
straw  which  of  the  step-parents  was  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      389 

guardian.  The  essence  of  the  question  was 
that  a  girl  wasn't  a  boy:  if  Maisie  had  been 
a  trousered  thing  Sir  Claude  would  have 
been  welcome.  As  the  case  stood  he  had 
simply  dropped  out,  and  Mrs.  Wix  would 
henceforth  find  herself  in  the  employ  of  the 
right  person.  These  arguments  had  really 
fallen,  for  our  young  lady,  into  their  place 
at  the  very  touch  of  that  tone  in  which  she 
had  heard  her  new  title  declared.  She  was 
still,  as  a  result  of  so  many  parents,  a  daugh- 
ter to  somebody,  even  after  papa  and  mamma 
were  to  all  intents  dead.  If  her  father's 
wife  and  her  mother's  husband,  by  the 
operation  of  a  natural,  or,  for  all  she  knew, 
a  legal  rule,  were  in  the  shoes  of  their  de- 
funct partners,  then  Mrs.  Beale's  was  exactly 
as  defunct  as  Sir  Claude's  and  her  shoes  the 
very  pair  to  which,  in  "  Farange  v.  Farange 
&  Others,"  the  divorce-court  had  given  pri- 
ority. The  subject  of  that  celebrated  settle- 
ment saw  the  rest  of  the  day  really  filled 
out  with  the  pomp  of  all  that  Mrs.  Beale 
assumed.  The  assumption  rounded  itself 
there  between  her  entertainers,  flourished 
in  a  way  that  left  them,  in  their  bottomless 
element,  scarce  a  free  pair  of  eyes  to  ex- 
change signals.  It  struck  Maisie  even  a 


390      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

little  that  there  was  a  rope  or  two  Mrs.  Wix 
might  have  thrown  out  if  she  would,  or  a 
rocket  or  two  she  might  have  sent  up. 
They  had,  at  any  rate,  never  been  so  long 
together  without  communion  or  telegraphy, 
and  their  companion  kept  them  apart  by 
simply  keeping  them  with  her.  From  this 
situation  they  saw  the  grandeur  of  their 
intenser  relation  to  her  pass  and  pass  like 
an  endless  procession.  It  was  a  day  of  lively 
movement  and  of  talk,  on  Mrs.  Beale's  part, 
so  brilliant  and  overflowing  as  to  represent 
music  and  banners.  She  took  them  out 
with  her,  promptly,  to  walk  and  to  drive, 
and  even,  towards  night,  sketched  a  plan  for 
carrying  them  to  the  Etablissement,  where, 
for  only  a  franc  apiece,  they  would  listen 
to  a  concert  of  celebrities.  It  reminded 
Maisie,  the  plan,  of  the  side-shows  at  Earl's 
Court,  and  the  franc  sounded  brighter  than 
the  shillings  which  had  at  that  time  failed ; 
yet  this  too,  like  the  other,  was  a  frustrated 
hope:  the  francs  failed  like  the  shillings 
and  the  side-shows  had  set  an  example  to  the 
concert.  The  fitablissement,  in  short, 
melted  away,  and  it  was  little  wonder  that 
a  lady  who  from  the  moment  of  her  arrival 
had  been  so  gallantly  in  the  breach  should 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      391 

confess  herself  at  last  done  up.  Maisie 
could  appreciate  her  fatigue;  the  day  had 
not  passed  without  such  an  observer's  dis- 
covering that  she  was  excited  and  even  men- 
tally comparing  her  state  to  that  of  the 
breakers  after  a  gale.  It  had  blown  hard  in 
London,  and  she  would  take  time  to  sub- 
side. It  was  of  the  condition  known  to  the 
child  by  report  as  that  of  talking  against 
time  that  her  decision,  her  spirit,  her  humor, 
which  had  never  dropped,  now  gave  the 
impression. 

She  too  was  delighted  with  foreign  man- 
ners; but  her  daughter's  opportunities  of 
explaining  them  to  her  were  unexpectedly 
forestalled  by  her  tone  of  large  acquaintance 
with  them.  One  of  the  things  that  nipped 
in  the  bud  all  response  to  her  volubility  was 
Maisie's  surprised  retreat  before  the  fact  that 
Continental  life  was  what  she  had  been  al- 
most brought  up  on.  It  was  Mrs.  Beale,  dis- 
concertingly, who  began  to  explain  it  to  her 
friends;  it  was  she  who,  wherever  they 
turned,  was  the  interpreter,  the  historian  and 
the  guide.  She  was  full  of  reference  to  her 
early  travels  —  at  the  age  of  eighteen :  she 
had  at  that  period  made,  with  a  distin- 
guished Dutch  family,  a  stay  on  the  Lake  of 


392      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Geneva.  Maisie,  in  the  old  days,  had  been 
regaled  with  anecdotes  of  these  adventures, 
but  they  had  become  phantasmal,  and  the 
heroine's  quite  showy  exemption  from  be- 
wilderment at  Boulogne,  her  acuteness  on 
some  of  the  very  subjects  on  which  Maisie 
had  been  acute  to  Mrs.  Wix,  were  a  high 
note  of  the  mastery,  of  the  advantage  with 
which  she  had  arrived.  It  was  all  a  part  of 
the  wind  in  her  sails  and  of  the  weight  with 
which  her  daughter  was  now  to  feel  her 
hand.  The  effect  of  it  on  Maisie  was  to  add 
already  the  burden  of  time  to  her  separation 
from  Sir  Claude.  It  might  have  lasted  for 
days ;  it  was  as  if,  with  their  main  agitation 
transferred  thus  to  France  and  with  neither 
mamma,  now,  nor  Mrs.  Beale,  nor  Mrs.  Wix, 
nor  herself  at  his  side,  he  must  be  fearfully 
alone  in  England.  Hour  after  hour  she  felt 
as  if  she  were  waiting;  yet  she  could  n't  have 
said  exactly  for  what.  There  were  moments 
when  Mrs.  Beale' s  flow  of  talk  might  have 
bubbled  on  the  very  edge  of  it;  at  others 
this  talk  was  a  mere  rattle  to  smother  a 
knock.  At  no  part  of  the  crisis  had  the 
rattle  so  public  a  purpose  as  when,  instead 
of  letting  Maisie  go  with  Mrs.  Wix  to  pre- 
pare for  dinner,  she  pushed  her  —  with  a 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      393 

push  at  last  incontestably  maternal  —  straight 
into  the  room  inherited  from  Sir  Claude. 
She  titivated  her  little  charge  with  her  own 
brisk  hands;  then  she  brought  out:  "I'm 
going  to  divorce  your  father." 

This  was  so  different  from  anything  Maisie 
had  expected  that  it  took  some  time  to  reach 
her  mind.  She  was  aware  meanwhile  that 
she  must  look  rather  wan.  "To  marry  Sir 
Claude  ? " 

Mrs.  Beale  rewarded  her  with  a  kiss. 
" It 's  sweet  to  hear  you  put  it  so." 

This  was  a  tribute,  but  it  left  Maisie  bal- 
ancing for  an  objection.  "  How  can  you 
when  he's  married?" 

"He  isn't  — practically.     He's  free." 

"  Free  to  marry  ?  " 

"Free,  first,  to  divorce  his  own  fiend." 

The  benefit  that  these  last  days  she  had 
felt  she  owed  a  certain  person  left  Maisie 
for  the  moment  so  ill-prepared  for  recogniz- 
ing this  label  that  she  hesitated  long  enough 
to  risk :  "  Mamma  ?  " 

"  She  is  n't  your  mamma  any  longer,"  Mrs. 
Beale  replied.  "  Sir  Claude  has  paid  her 
money  to  cease  to  be. "  Then  as  if  remem- 
bering how  little,  to  the  child,  a  pecuniary 
transaction  must  represent:  "She  lets  him 


394      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

off  supporting  her  if  he  '11  let  her  off  support- 
ing you. " 

Mrs.  Beale  appeared,  however,  to  have  done 
injustice  to  her  daughter's  financial  grasp. 
"And  support  me  himself  ?"  Maisie  asked. 

"  Take  the  whole  burden  and  never  let  her 
hear  of  you  again.  It 's  a  regular  signed 
contract." 

"  Why,  that 's  lovely  of  her ! "  Maisie  cried. 

"  It 's  not  so  lovely,  my  dear,  but  that  he  '11 
get  his  divorce." 

Maisie  was  briefly  silent;  after  which, 
"  No  —  he  won't  get  it, "  she  said.  Then  she 
added  still  more  boldly:  "And  you  won't 
get  yours." 

Mrs.  Beale,  who  was  at  the  dressing-glass, 
turned  round  with  amusement  and  surprise. 
"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  know!"  said  Maisie. 

"From  Mrs.  Wix?" 

Maisie  hesitated;  then,  after  an  instant, 
was  determined  by  Mrs.  Beale' s  absence  of 
anger,  which  struck  her  the  more  as  she  had 
felt  that  she  must  take  her  courage  in  her 
hands.  "From  Mrs.  Wix,"  she  admitted. 

Mrs.  Beale,  at  the  glass  again,  made  play 
with  a  powder-puff.  "My  own  sweet,  she  's 
mistaken  !  "  was  all  she  said. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      395 

There  was  a  certain  force  in  the  very 
amenity  of  this,  but  our  young  lady  reflected 
long  enough  to  remember  that  it  was  not  the 
answer  Sir  Claude  himself  had  made.  This 
recollection,  nevertheless,  failed  to  prevent 
her  saying:  "Do  you  mean,  then,  that  he 
won't  come  till  he  has  got  it? " 

Mrs.  Beale  gave  a  last  touch;  she  was 
ready;  she  stood  there  in  all  her  elegance. 
"  I  mean,  my  dear,  that  it 's  because  he  has  n't 
got  it  that  I  left  him." 

This  opened  out  a  view  that  stretched 
further  than  Maisie  could  reach.  She 
turned  away  from  it,  but  she  spoke  before 
they  went  out  again.  "Do  you  like  Mrs. 
Wix  now?" 

"Why,  my  chick,  I  was  just  going  to  ask 
you  if  you  think  she  has  come  at  all  to  like 
poor  me!  " 

Maisie  thought,  at  this  hint;  but  unsuc- 
cessfully. "I  have  n't  the  least  idea.  But 
I '11  find  out." 

"  Do !  "  said  Mrs.  Beale,  rustling  out  with 
her  and  as  if  it  would  be  a  particular  favor. 

The  child  tried,  promptly,  at  bed-time, 
relieved  now  of  the  fear  that  their  visitor 
would  wish  to  separate  her  for  the  night 
from  her  attendant.  "  Have  you  held  out  ?  " 


396      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

—  she   began  as  soon   as  the   doors  at  the 
end   of   the   passage  were   again  closed   on 
them. 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  hard  at  the  flame  of  the 
candle.  "  Held  out  —  ?" 

"  Why,  she  has  been  making  love  to  you. 
Has  she  won  you  over  ? " 

Mrs.  Wix  transferred  the  straighteners  to 
her  pupil's  face.  "  Over  to  what  ?  " 

"To  her  keeping  me  instead." 

"Instead  of  Sir  Claude?"  Mrs.  Wix  was 
distinctly  gaining  time. 

"Yes;  who  else?  —  since  it's  not  instead 
aiyat," 

Mrs.  Wix  colored  at  this  lucidity.      "  Yes 

—  that  is  what  she  means. " 

"Well,  do  you  like  it?  "  Maisie  asked. 

She  actually  had  to  wait,  for,  oh,  her 
friend  was  embarrassed !  "  My  opposition 
to  the  connection  —  theirs  —  would  then, 
naturally,  to  some  extent  fall.  She  has 
treated  me  to-day  with  peculiar  considera- 
tion; not  that  I  don't  know  very  well  where 
she  got  the  pattern  of  it !  But  of  course, " 
Mrs.  Wix  hastened  to  add,  "  I  should  n't 
like  her  as  the  one  nearly  so  well  as  him." 

" '  Nearly  so  well ' ! "  Maisie  echoed :  "  I 
should  hope  indeed  not."  She  spoke  with 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      397 

a  firmness  at  which  she  was  the  first  to  be 
amazed.  "  I  thought  you  '  adored  '  him." 

"I  do,"  Mrs.  Wix  sturdily  allowed. 

"  Then  have  you  suddenly  begun  to  adore 
her  too  ? " 

Mrs.  Wix,  instead  of  directly  answering, 
only  blinked  in  support  of  her  sturdiness. 
"My  dear,  in  what  a  tone  you  ask  that! 
You  're  coming  out." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  You've  come  out. 
Mrs.  Beale  has  come  out.  We  each  have 
our  turn ! "  And  Maisie  threw  off  the  most 
extraordinary  little  laugh  that  had  ever 
passed  her  young  lips. 

There  passed  Mrs.  Wix's  indeed  the  next 
moment  a  sound  that  more  than  matched  it. 
"  You  're  most  remarkable !  "  she  neighed. 

Her  pupil  faltered  a  few  seconds.  "I 
think  you  've  done  a  great  deal  to  make 
me  so." 

"Very  true  —  I  have."  She  dropped  to 
humility,  as  if  she  recalled  her  so  recent 
self -arraignment. 

"Would  you  accept  her,  then?  That's 
what  I  ask,"  said  Maisie. 

"  As  a  substitute  ?  "  Mrs.  Wix  turned 
it  over;  she  met  again  the  child's  eyes. 
"She  has  literally  almost  fawned  upon  me." 


398      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

"  She  has  n't  fawned  upon  him.  She 
hasn't  even  been  kind  to  him." 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  as  if  she  had  now  an 
advantage.  "Then  do  you  propose  to 
'kill'  her?" 

"You  don't  answer  my  question,"  Maisie 
persisted.  "I  want  to  know  if  you  accept 
her." 

Mrs.  Wix  continued  to  dodge.  "  I  want 
to  know  if  you  do ! " 

Everything  in  the  child's  person  at  this 
announced  that  it  was  easy  to  know. 
"Not  for  a  moment." 

"Not  the  two  now?"  Mrs.  Wix  had 
caught  on  —  she  flushed  with  it.  "  Only 
him  alone?" 

"Him  alone  or  nobody." 

"Not  even  me?"  cried  Mrs.  Wix. 

Maisie  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then 
began  to  undress.  "  Oh,  you  're  nobody ! " 


XXIX 

SHE  slept  beyond  her  allowance,  instantly 
recognizing  lateness  in  the  way  her  eyes 
opened  to  Mrs.  Wix,  erect,  completely 
dressed,  more  dressed  than  ever,  and  gazing 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      399 

at  her  from  the  centre  of  the  room.  The 
next  thing  she  was  sitting  very  high,  wide 
awake  with  the  fear  of  the  hours  of  "  abroad  " 
that  she  might  have  lost.  Mrs.  Wix  looked 
as  if  the  day  already  made  itself  felt,  and 
the  process  of  catching  up  with  it  began  for 
Maisie  with  hearing  her  distinctly  say: 
"  My  poor  dear,  he  has  come ! " 

"  Sir  Claude  ?  "  Maisie,  clearing  the  little 
bed- rug  with  the  width  of  her  spring,  felt 
the  polished  floor  under  her  bare  feet. 

"He  crossed  in  the  night;  he  got  in 
early."  Mrs.  Wix's  head  jerked  stiffly  back- 
ward. "He's  there." 

"  And  you  've  seen  him  ?  " 

"No.  He's  there  — he's  there!"  Mrs. 
Wix  repeated.  Her  voice  came  out  with  a 
queer  extinction  that  was  not  a  voluntary 
drop,  and  she  trembled  so  that  it  added  to 
their  common  emotion.  Visibly  pale,  they 
gazed  at  each  other. 

"Isn't  it  too  beautiful!"  Maisie  panted 
back  at  her;  an  appeal  to  which,  however, 
she  was  not  ready  with  a  response.  The 
term  Maisie  had  used  was  a  flash  of  diplo- 
macy—  to  prevent,  at  any  rate,  Mrs.  Wix's 
using  another.  To  that  degree  it  was  suc- 
cessful; there  was  only  an  appeal,  strange 


400      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

and  mute,  in  the  white  old  face,  which 
produced  the  effect  of  a  want  of  decision 
greater  than  could  by  any  stretch  of  opti- 
mism have  been  associated  with  her  attitude 
toward  what  had  happened.  For  Maisie 
herself  indeed  what  had  happened  was, 
oddly,  as  she  could  feel,  less  of  a  simple 
rapture  than  any  arrival  or  return  of  the 
same  supreme  friend  had  ever  been  before. 
What  had  become  overnight,  what  had  be- 
come while  she  slept,  of  the  comfortable 
faculty  of  gladness?  She  tried  to  wake  it 
up  a  little  wider  by  talking,  by  rejoicing, 
by  plunging  into  water  and  into  clothes, 
and  she  made  out  that  it  was  ten  o'clock, 
but  also  that  Mrs.  Wix  had  not  yet  break- 
fasted. The  day  before,  at  nine,  they  had 
had  together  a  cafe  complet  in  their  sitting- 
room.  Mrs.  Wix,  on  her  side,  had  evidently 
also  a  refuge  to  seek.  She  sought  it  in 
checking  the  precipitation  of  some  of  her 
pupil's  present  steps,  in  recalling  to  her, 
with  an  approach  to  sternness,  that  of  all 
such  preparations  ablutions  should  be  the 
most  thorough,  and  in  throwing  even  a 
certain  reprobation  on  the  idea  of  hurrying 
into  clothes  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  step- 
father. She  took  her  in  fact,  with  a  sort 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      401 

of  silent  insistence,  in  hand;  she  reduced 
the  process  to  sequences  more  definite  than 
any  it  had  known  since  the  days  of  Moddle. 
Whatever  it  might  be  that  was  now,  with 
a  difference,  attached  to  Sir  Claude's  pres- 
ence, was  still,  after  all,  compatible  for  our 
young  lady  with  the  instinct  of  dressing  to 
see  him  with  almost  untidy  haste.  Mrs. 
Wix  meanwhile,  luckily,  was  not  wholly 
directed  to  repression.  "  He  's  there  —  he  's 
there ! "  she  had  said  over  several  times. 
It  was  her  answer  to  every  invitation  to  men- 
tion how  long  she  had  been  up  and  her 
motive  for  respecting  so  rigidly  the  slumber 
of  her  companion.  It  formed  for  some 
minutes  her  only  account  of  the  where- 
abouts of  the  others  and  her  reason  for  not 
having  yet  seen  them,  as  well  as  of  the 
possibility  of  their  presently  being  found  in 
the  salon. 

"  He  's  there  — he  's  there ! "  she  declared 
once  more,  as  she  made,  on  the  child,  with 
an  almost  invidious  tug,  a  strained  under- 
garment "meet." 

"  Do  you  mean  he 's  in  the  salon  ?  "  Maisic 
asked  again. 

"He's   with  her,"  Mrs.  Wix  desolately 
said.     "  He 's  with  her,"  she  reiterated. 
26 


402      WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW 

"  Do  you  mean  in  her  own  room  ? "  Maisie 
continued. 

She  waited  an  instant.     "  God  knows  !  " 

Maisie  wondered  a  little  why,  or  how, 
God  should  know;  this,  however,  delayed 
but  an  instant  her  bringing  out:  "Well, 
won't  she  go  back?" 

"  Go  back  ?     Never ! " 

"She '11  stay  all  the  same?" 

"All  the  more." 

"Then  won't  Sir  Claude  go?"  Maisie 
asked. 

"Go  back  — if  she  .doesn't?"  Mrs.  Wix 
appeared  to  give  this  question  the  benefit 
of  a  minute's  thought.  "Why  should  he 
have  come  —  only  to  go  back  ?  " 

Maisie  produced  an  ingenious  solution. 
"To  make  her  go.  To  take  her." 

Mrs.  Wix  met  it  without  a  concession. 
"If  he  can  make  her  go  so  easily,  why 
should  he  have  let  her  come?" 

Maisie  considered.  "Oh,  just  to  see  me. 
She  has  a  right." 

"  Yes  —  she  has  a  right. " 

"She's  my  mother!"  Maisie  tentatively 
tittered. 

"  Yes  —  she  's  your  mother. " 

"Besides,"   Maisie  went  on,  "he  didn't 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      403 

let  her  come.  He  doesn't  like  her  coming; 
and  if  he  doesn't  like  it  —  " 

Mrs.  Wix  took  her  up.  "  He  must  lump 
it  —  that's  what  he  must  do!  Your  mother 
was  right  about  him  —  I  mean  your  real  one. 
He  has  no  strength.  No  —  none  at  all. " 
She  seemed  more  profoundly  to  muse.  "  He 
might  have  had  some  even  with  her — I 
mean  with  her  ladyship.  He  's  just  a  poor, 
sunk  slave, "  she  asserted  with  sudden  energy. 

Maisie  wondered  again.     "  A  slave  ?  " 

"To  his  passions." 

She  continued  to  wonder  and  even  to  be 
impressed;  after  which  she  went  on:  "But 
how  do  you  know  he  '11  stay?  " 

"  Because  he  likes  us !  "  —  and  Mrs.  Wix, 
with  her  emphasis  of  the  word,  whirled  her 
charge  round  again  to  deal  with  posterior 
hooks.  She  had  positively  never  shaken 
her  so. 

It  was  as  if  she  quite  shook  something  out 
of  her.  "But  how  will  that  help  him  if  we 
—  in  spite  of  his  affection !  —  don't  stay? " 

"  Do  you  mean  if  we  go  off  and  leave  him 
with  her?  "  —  Mrs.  Wix  put  the  question  to 
the  back  of  her  pupil's  head.  "It  wont 
help  him.  It  will  be  his  ruin.  He  '11  have 
got  nothing.  He'll  have  lost  everything. 


404       WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

It  will  be  his  utter  destruction,  for  he  's 
certain  after  a  while  to  loathe  her." 

"Then  when  he  loathes  her"  —  it  was 
astonishing  how  she  caught  the  idea  —  "  he  '11 
just  come  right  after  us ! "  Maisie  announced. 

"Never." 

"Never?" 

"  She  '11  keep  him.  She  '11  hold  him  for- 
ever." 

Maisie  doubted.  "When  he  'loathes' 
her?" 

"That  won't  matter.  She  won't  loathe 
him.  People  don't !"  Mrs.  Wix  brought  up. 

"Some  do.  Mamma  does,"  Maisie  con- 
tended. 

"Mamma  does  not!"  It  was  startling  — 
her  friend  contradicted  her  flat.  "  She 
loves  him  —  she  adores  him.  A  woman 
knows."  Mrs.  Wix  spoke  not  only  as  if 
Maisie  were  not  a  woman,  but  as  if  she 
would  never  be  one.  "  /  know ! "  she  cried. 

"Then  why  on  earth  has  she  left  him?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  hesitated.  "He  hates  her. 
Don't  stoop  so  —  lift  up  your  hair.  You 
know  how  I  'm  affected  toward  him,"  she 
added,  with  dignity;  "but  you  must  also 
know  that  I  see  clear." 

Maisie,  all  this  time,  was  trying  hard  to 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      405 

do  likewise.  "Then,  if  she  has  left  him 
for  that,  why  should  n't  Mrs.  Beale  leave 
him?" 

"  Because  she 's  not  such  a  fool ! " 

"  Not  such  a  fool  as  mamma?  " 

"  Precisely  —  if  you  will  have  it.  Does  it 
look  like  her  leaving  him  ? "  Mrs.  Wix  in- 
quired. She  hung  fire  again ;  then  she  went 
on  with  more  intensity:  "Do  you  want  to 
know  really  and  truly  why?  So  that  she 
may  be  his  wretchedness  and  his  punish- 
ment." 

"  His  punishment  ? "  —  this  was  more  than 
as  yet  Maisie  could  quite  accept.  "  For 
what?" 

"For  everything.  That's  what  will  hap- 
pen: he'll  be  tied  to  her  forever.  She 
won't  mind  in  the  least  his  hating  her,  and 
she  won't  hate  him  back.  She  '11  only  hate 
us." 

"  Us  ? "  the  child  faintly  echoed. 

"  She  '11  hate  you." 

"Me?  Why,  I  brought  them  together!" 
Maisie  resentfully  cried. 

"You  brought  them  together."  There 
was  a  completeness  in  Mrs.  Wix's  assent. 
"  Yes ;  it  was  a  pretty  job.  Sit  down. "  She 
began  to  brush  her  pupil's  hair  and,  as  she 


4o6      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

took  up  the  mass  of  it  with  some  force  of 
hand,  went  on  with  a  sharp  recall:  "Your 
mother  adored  him  at  first  —  it  might  have 
lasted.  But  he  began  too  soon  with  Mrs. 
Beale.  As  you  say,"  she  pursued  with  a 
free  application  of  the  brush,  "you  brought 
them  together." 

"  I  brought  them  together  "  —  Maisie  was 
ready  to  reaffirm  it.  She  felt,  none  the 
less,  for  a  moment,  at  the  bottom  of  a  hole ; 
then  she  seemed  to  see  a  way  out.  "  But  I 
didn't  bring  mamma  together."  She  just 
faltered. 

"  With  all  those  gentlemen  ?  "  —  Mrs.  Wix 
pulled  her  up.  "No;  it  isn't  quite  so  bad 
as  that. " 

"  I  only  said  to  the  Captain  "  —  Maisie 
had  the  quick  memory  of  it  —  "  that  I  hoped 
he  at  least  (he  was  awfully  nice !)  would  love 
her  and  keep  her." 

"And  even  that  wasn't  much  harm," 
threw  in  Mrs.  Wix. 

"It  wasn't  much  good,"  Maisie  was 
obliged  to  recognize.  "She  can't  bear 
him  —  not  even  a  mite.  She  told  me  at 
Folkestone. " 

Mrs.  Wix  suppressed  a  gasp ;  then  after  a 
bridling  instant  during  which  she  might 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      407 

have  appeared  to  deflect  with  difficulty  from 
her  odd  consideration  of  Ida's  wrongs:  "He 
was  a  nice  sort  of  person  for  her  to  talk  to 
you  about ! " 

"  Oh,  I  like  him !  "  Maisie  promptly  re- 
joined; and  at  this,  with  an  inarticulate 
sound  and  an  inconsequence  still  more 
marked,  her  companion  bent  over  and  dealt 
her,  on  the  cheek,  a  rapid  peck  which  had 
the  apparent  intention  of  a  kiss. 

"Well,  if  her  ladyship  doesn't  agree  with 
you,  what  does  it  only  prove?"  Mrs.  Wix 
demanded  in  conclusion.  "  It  proves  that 
she's  fond  of  Sir  Claude!" 

Maisie,  in  the  light  of  some  of  the  evi- 
dence, reflected  on  that  till  her  hair  was 
finished;  but  when  she  at  last  started  up 
she  gave  a  sign  of  no  very  close  embrace 
of  it.  She  grasped,  at  this  moment,  Mrs. 
Wix's  arm.  "He  must  have  got  his 
divorce ! " 

" Since  day  before  yesterday?  Don't  talk 
trash ! " 

This  was  spoken  with  an  impatience 
which  left  the  child  nothing  to  reply; 
whereupon  she  sought  her  defence  in  a  com- 
pletely different  relation  to  the  fact.  "  Well, 
I  knew  he  would  come ! " 


4o8      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"So  did  I;  but  not  in  twenty-four  hours. 
I  gave  him  a  few  days  !  "  Mrs.  Wix  wailed. 

Maisie,  whom  she  had  now  released, 
looked  at  her  with  interest.  "  How  many 
did  she  give  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  faced  her  a  moment;  then  as 
if  with  a  bewildered  sniff :  "  You  had  better 
ask  her!"  But  she  had  no  sooner  uttered 
the  words  than  she  caught  herself  up.  "  Lord 
of  mercy,  how  we  talk ! " 

Maisie  felt  that,  however  they  talked,  she 
must  see  him,  but  she  said  nothing  more  for 
a  time,  a  time  during  which  she  conscien- 
tiously finished  dressing  and  Mrs.  Wix  also 
kept  silent.  It  was  as  if  they  each  had 
almost  too  much  to  think  of,  and  even  as  if 
the  child  had  the  sense  that  her  friend  was 
watching  her  and  seeing  if  she  herself  were 
watched.  At  last  Mrs.  Wix  turned  to  the 
window  and  stood  —  sightlessly,  as  Maisie 
could  guess  —  looking  away.  Then  our 
young  lady,  before  the  glass,  gave  the  su- 
preme shake.  "Well,  I  'm  ready.  And  now 
to  see  him  ! " 

Mrs.  Wix  turned  round,  seemingly  without 
having  heard  her.  "It's  tremendously 
grave."  There  were  slow,  still  tears  behind 
the  straighteners. 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      409 

"It  is  —  it  is."  Maisie  spoke  as  one 
now  dressed  quite  up  to  the  occasion;  as 
one  indeed  who,  with  the  last  touch,  had 
put  on  the  judgment-cap.  "  I  must  see  him 
immediately." 

"  How  can  you  see  him  if  he  does  n't  send 
for  you  ? " 

"Why  can't  I  go  and  find  him? " 

"Because  you  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"Can't  I  just  look  in  the  salon?"  That 
still  seemed  simple  to  Maisie. 

Mrs.  Wix,  however,  instantly  cut  it  off. 
"I  wouldn't  have  you  look  in  the  salon  for 
all  the  world  !  "  Then  she  explained  a  little : 
"The  salon  isn't  ours  now." 

"Ours?" 

"Yours  and  mine.     It 's  theirs." 

"Theirs?"  Maisie,  with  her  stare,  con- 
tinued to  echo.  "You  mean  they  want  to 
keep  us  out  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wix  faltered ;  she  sank  into  a  chair 
and,  as  Maisie  had  often  enough  seen  her  do 
before,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"They  ought  to,  at  least.  The  situation's 
too  monstrous ! " 

Maisie  stood  there  a  moment  —  she  looked 
about  the  room.  "  I  '11  go  to  him  —  I' 11  find 
him." 


410      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"/won't!  I  won't  go  near  them!"  cried 
Mrs.  Wix. 

"Then  I'll  see  him  alone."  The  child 
spied  what  she  had  been  looking  for  —  she 
possessed  herself  of  her  hat.  "  Perhaps  I  '11 
take  him  out!"  And,  with  decision,  she 
quitted  the  room. 

When  she  entered  the  salon  it  was  empty ; 
but  at  the  sound  of  the  opened  door  some 
one  stirred  on  the  balcony  and  Sir  Claude, 
stepping  straight  in,  stood  before  her.  He 
was  in  light,  fresh  clothes  and  wore  a  straw 
hat  with  a  bright  ribbon;  these  things,  be- 
sides striking  her  in  themselves  as  the  very 
promise  of  the  grandest  of  grand  tours,  gave 
him  a  certain  radiance  and,  as  it  were,  a 
tropical  ease ;  but  such  an  effect  only  marked 
rather  more  his  having  stopped  short  and,  for 
a  longer  minute  than  had  ever,  at  such  a 
juncture,  elapsed,  not  opened  his  arms  to 
her.  His  pause  made  her  pause  and  enabled 
her  to  reflect  that  he  must  have  been  up 
some  time,  for  there  were  no  traces  of  break- 
fast, and  that,  though  it  was  so  late,  he  had 
rather  markedly  not  caused  her  to  be  called 
to  him.  Had  Mrs.  Wix  been  right  about 
their  forfeiture  of  the  salon?  Was  it  all  his 
now,  all  his  and  Mrs.  Beale's?  Such  an 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      411 

idea,  at  the  rate  her  small  thoughts  throbbed, 
could  only  remind  her  of  the  way  in  which 
what  had  been  hers  hitherto  was  what  was 
exactly  most  Mrs.  Beale's  and  his.  It  was 
strange  to  be  standing  there  and  greeting 
him  across  a  gulf,  for  he  had  by  this  time 
spoken,  smiled,  said :  "  My  dear  child  —  my 
dear  child  ! "  but  without  coming  any  nearer. 
In  a  flash  she  saw  that  he  was  different  — 
more  so  than  he  knew  or  designed.  The 
next  minute  indeed  it  was  as  if  he  caught 
an  impression  from  her  face:  this  made  him 
hold  out  his  hand.  Then  they  met,  he 
kissed  her,  he  laughed,  she  thought  he  even 
blushed ;  something  of  his  affection  rang  out 
as  usual.  "  Here  I  am,  you  see,  again  —  as 
I  promised  you." 

It  was  not  as  he  had  promised  them  — •  he 
had  not  promised  them  Mrs.  Beale;  but 
Maisie  said  nothing  about  that.  What  she 
said  was  simply:  "I  knew  you  had  come. 
Mrs.  Wixtoldme." 

"  Oh  yes.     And  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  In  her  room.  She  got  me  up  —  she 
dressed  me." 

Sir  Claude  looked  at  her  up  and  down ;  a 
sweetness  of  mockery  that  she  particularly 
loved  came  out  in  his  face  whenever  he  did 


412      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

that,  and  it  was  not  wanting  now.  He  raised 
his  eyebrows  and  his  arms  to  play  at  admira- 
tion; he  was  evidently,  after  all,  disposed  to 
be  gay.  "  Got  you  up  ?  I  should  think  so  ! 
She  has  dressed  you  most  beautifully.  Is  n't 
she  coming  ? " 

Maisie  wondered  if  she  had  better  tell. 
"  She  said  not. " 

"  Does  n't  she  want  to  see  a  poor  devil  ?  " 

She  looked  about,  under  the  vibration  of 
the  way  he  described  himself,  and  her  eyes 
rested  on  the  door  of  the  room  he  had  pre- 
viously occupied.  "  Is  Mrs.  Beale  in  there  ?  " 

Sir  Claude  looked  blankly  at  the  same 
object.  "  I  have  n't  the  least  idea ! " 

"You  haven't  seen  her?" 

"Not  the  tip  of  her  nose." 

Maisie  thought;  there  settled  on  her,  in 
the  light  of  his  beautiful  smiling  eyes,  the 
faintest,  purest,  coldest  conviction  that  he 
was  not  telling  the  truth.  "  She  has  n't 
welcomed  you? " 

"  Not  by  a  single  sign. " 

"Then  where  is  she?" 

Sir  Claude  laughed;  he  seemed  both 
amused  and  surprised  at  the  point  she  made 
of  it.  "I  give  it  up." 

"  Does  n't  she  know  you  've  come  ? " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      413 

He  laughed  again.  "  Perhaps  she  does  n't 
care ! " 

Maisie,  with  an  inspiration,  pounced  on 
his  arm.  "  Has  she  gone  ?  " 

He  met  her  eyes,  and  then  she  could  see 
that  his  own  were  really  much  graver  than 
his  manner.  "  Gone  ?  "  She  had  flown  to 
the  door,  but  before  she  could  raise  her  hand 
to  knock  he  was  beside  her  and  had  caught 
it.  "  Let  her  be.  I  don't  care  about  her. 
I  want  to  see  you." 

Maisie  fell  back  with  him.  "Then  she 
hasn't  gone? " 

He  still  looked  as  if  it  were  a  joke;  but 
the  more  she  saw  of  him  the  more  she  could 
make  out  that  he  was  troubled.  "It 
wouldn't  be  like  her!" 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him.  "  Did  you 
want  her  to  come  ?  " 

"How  can  you  suppose  —  ?"  He  put  it 
to  her  candidly.  "  We  had  an  immense  row 
over  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  've  quarrelled  ?  " 

Sir  Claude  hesitated.  "What  has  she 
told  you?" 

"That  I  'm  hers  as  much  as  yours.  That 
she  represents  papa. " 

His  gaze  struck   away  through   the  open 


4H      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

window  and  up  to  the  sky ;  she  could  hear 
him  rattle  in  his  trousers'  pocket  his  money 
or  his  keys.  "  Yes  —  that 's  what  she  keeps 
saying. "  It  gave  him  for  a  moment  an  air 
that  was  almost  helpless. 

"You  say  you  don't  care  about  her," 
Maisie  went  on.  "Do  you  mean  you've 
quarrelled  ?  " 

"We  do  nothing  in  life  but  quarrel." 

He  rose  before  her,  as  he  said  this,  so  soft 
and  fair,  so  rich,  in  spite  of  what  might 
worry  him,  in  restored  familiarities,  that  it 
gave  a  bright  blur  to  the  meaning  —  to  what 
would  otherwise,  perhaps,  have  been  the 
tangible  promise  —  of  the  words.  "  Oh,  your 
quarrels ! "  she  exclaimed  with  discourage- 
ment. 

"  I  assure  you  hers  are  quite  fearful ! "  he 
laughed. 

"I  don't  speak  of  hers.  I  speak  of 
yours. " 

"Ah,  don't  do  it  till  I  've  had  my  coffee! 
You're  growing  up  clever,"  he  added. 
Then  he  said :  "  I  suppose  you  've  break- 
fasted?" 

" Oh  no  —  I  've  had  nothing." 

"  Nothing  in  your  room  "  —  he  was  all  com- 
punction. "My  dear  old  man!  —  we'll 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      415 

breakfast  then  together."  He  had  one  of 
his  happy  thoughts.  "I  say  —  we'll  go 
out." 

"That  was  just  what  I  hoped.  I've 
brought  my  hat." 

"You  are  clever!  We'll  go  to  a  cafe"." 
Maisie  was  already  at  the  door;  he  glanced 
round  the  room.  "A  moment  —  my  stick." 
But  there  appeared  to  be  no  stick.  "No 
matter;  I  left  it  —  oh!"  He  remembered, 
with  an  odd  drop,  and  came  out. 

"  You  left  it  in  London  ?  "  she  asked  as 
they  went  downstairs. 

"  Yes  —  in  London :  fancy !  " 

"You  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  come," 
Maisie  explained. 

He  had  his  arm  round  her.  "That  must 
have  been  the  reason."  Half  way  down 
he  stopped  short  again,  slapping  his  leg. 
"And  poor  Mrs.  Wix!" 

Maisie' s  face  just  showed  a  shadow.  "  Do 
you  want  her  to  come  ?  " 

"  Dear,  no  —  I  want  to  see  you  alone. " 

"  That 's  the  way  I  want  to  see  you  /  "  she 
replied.  "  Like  before. " 

"  Like  before !  "  he  gayly  echoed.  "  But 
I  mean  has  she  had  her  coffee? " 

"No,  nothing." 


416      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

"Then  I  '11  send  it  up  to  her.  Madame !  " 
He  had  already,  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 
called  out  to  the  stout  patronne,  a  lady  who 
turned  to  him,  from  the  bustling,  breezy 
hall,  a  countenance  covered  with  fresh 
matutinal  powder  and  a  bosom  as  capacious 
as  the  velvet  shelf  of  a  chimney-piece,  over 
which  her  round  white  face,  framed  in  its 
golden  frizzle,  might  have  figured  as  a  showy 
clock.  He  ordered,  with  particular  recom- 
mendations, Mrs.  Wix's  repast,  and  it  was 
a  charm  to  hear  his  easy,  brilliant  French : 
even  his  companion's  ignorance  could  meas- 
ure the  perfection  of  it.  The  patronne, 
rubbing  her  hands  and  breaking  in  with 
high,  swift  notes,  as  into  a  florid  duet,  went 
with  him  to  the  street,  and  while  they 
talked  a  moment  longer  Maisie  remembered 
what  Mrs.  Wix  had  said  about  every  one's 
liking  him.  It  came  out  enough  through  the 
morning  powder,  it  came  out  enough  in  the 
heaving  bosom,  how  the  landlady  liked  him. 
He  had  evidently  ordered  something  lovely 
for  Mrs.  Wix.  "  Et  bien  soigne,  ri  est-ce-pas  ?  " 

"  Soyez  tranquille  "  — the  patronne  beamed 
upon  him.  "  Et  pour  Madame  ?  " 

"Madame?"  he  echoed  —  it  just  pulled 
him  up  a  little. 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      417 

" Rien  encore? " 

"  Rien  encore.  Come,  Maisie."  She  hur- 
ried along  with  him,  but  on  the  way  to  the 
cafe"  he  said  nothing. 


XXX 

AFTER  they  were  seated  there  it  was  differ- 
ent :  the  place  was  not  below  the  hotel,  but 
farther  along  the  quay;  with  wide,  clear 
windows  and  a  floor  sprinkled  with  bran  in 
a  manner  that  gave  it  for  visitors  a  little 
of  the  added  charm  of  a  circus.  They  had 
pretty  much  to  themselves  the  painted  spaces 
and  the  red  plush  benches ;  these  were  shared 
by  a  few  scattered  gentlemen  who  picked 
teeth,  with  facial  contortions,  behind  small 
bare  tables,  and  by  an  old  personage  in  par- 
ticular, a  very  old  personage  with  a  red 
ribbon  in  his  buttonhole,  whose  manner  of 
soaking  buttered  rolls  in  coffee  and  then 
disposing  of  them  in  the  little  that  was  left 
of  the  interval  between  his  nose  and  chin 
might  at  a  less  anxious  hour  have  cast  upon 
Maisie  an  almost  envious  spell.  They  too 
had  their  cafe*  au  lait  and  their  buttered 
rolls,  determined  by  Sir  Claude's  asking  her 
27 


4i8      WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

if  she  could  with  that  light  aid  wait  till 
the  hour  of  dejeuner.  His  allusion  to  this 
meal  gave  her,  in  the  shaded,  sprinkled 
coolness,  the  scene,  as  she  vaguely  felt,  of 
a  sort  of  ordered,  mirrored  license,  the 
haunt  of  those  —  the  irregular,  like  herself 
—  who  went  to  bed  or  who  rose  too  late, 
something  to  think  over  while  she  watched 
the  white-aproned  waiter  perform  as  nimbly 
with  plates  and  saucers  as  a  certain  conjurer 
her  friend  had,  in  London,  taken  her  to  a 
music-hall  to  see.  Sir  Claude  had  presently 
begun  to  talk  again,  to  tell  her  how  London 
had  looked,  and  how  long  he  had  felt  him- 
self, on  either  side,  to  have  been  absent ;  all 
about  Susan  Ash  too,  and  the  amusement 
as  well  as  the  difficulty  he  had  had  with 
her;  then  all  about  his  return  journey  and 
the  Channel  in  the  night  and  the  crowd  of 
people  coming  over  and  the  way  there  were 
always  too  many  one  knew.  He  spoke  of 
other  matters  besides,  especially  of  what  she 
must  tell  him  of  the  occupations,  while  he 
was  away,  of  Mrs.  Wix  and  her  pupil. 
Had  n't  they  had  the  good  time  he  had 
promised?  —  had  he  exaggerated  a  bit  the 
arrangements  made  for  their  pleasure? 
Maisie  had  something  —  not  all  there  was  — 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      419 

to  say  of  his  success  and  of  their  gratitude: 
she  had  a  complication  of  thought  that  grew 
every  minute,  grew  with  the  consciousness 
that  she  had  never  seen  him  in  this  particular 
state  in  which  he  had  been  given  back. 

Mrs.  Wix  had  once  said —  it  was  once  or 
fifty  times;  once  was  enough  for  Maisie, 
but  more  was  not  too  much  —  that  he  was 
wonderfully  various.  Well,  he  was  cer- 
tainly so,  to  the  child's  mind,  on  the  present 
occasion;  he  was  much  more  various  than 
he  was  anything  else.  The  fact  that  they 
were  together  in  a  shop,  at  a  nice  little 
intimate  table,  as  they  had  so  often  been 
in  London,  only,  besides,  made  greater  the 
difference  of  what  they  were  together  about. 
This  difference  was  in  his  face,  in  his  voice, 
in  every  look  he  gave  her  and  every  move- 
ment he  made.  They  were  not  the  looks 
and  the  movements  he  really  wanted  to 
show,  and  she  could  feel  as  well  that  they 
were  not  those  she  herself  wanted.  She  had 
seen  him  nervous,  she  had  seen  every  one 
she  had  come  in  contact  with  nervous,  but 
she  had  never  seen  him  so  nervous  as  this. 
Little  by  little  it  gave  her  a  settled  terror, 
a  terror  that  partook  of  the  coldness  she  had 
felt  just  before  at  the  hotel,  to  find  herself, 


420      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

on  his  answer  about  Mrs.  Beale,  disbelieve 
him.  She  seemed  to  see  at  present,  to 
touch  across  the  table,  as  if  by  laying  her 
hand  on  it,  what  he  had  meant  when  he  con- 
fessed on  those  several  occasions  to  fear. 
Why  was  such  a  man  so  often  afraid?  It 
must  have  begun  to  come  to  her  now  that 
there  was  one  thing  just  such  a  man  above 
all  could  be  afraid  of.  He  could  be  afraid 
of  himself.  His  fear,  at  all  events,  was 
there;  his  fear  was  sweet  to  her,  beautiful 
and  tender  to  her,  was  having  coffee  and 
buttered  rolls  and  talk  and  laughter  that 
were  no  talk  and  laughter  at  all,  with  her; 
his  fear  was  in  his  jesting,  postponing, 
perverting  voice;  it  was  in  just  this  make- 
believe  way  he  had  brought  her  out  to  imitate 
the  old  London  playtimes,  to  imitate  indeed 
a  relation  that  had  wholly  changed,  a  rela- 
tion that  she  had,  with  her  very  eyes,  seen 
in  the  act  of  change  when^  the  day  before, 
in  the  salon,  Mrs.  Beale  rose  suddenly 
before  her.  She  rose  before  her,  for  that 
matter,  now,  and  even  before  their  refresh- 
ment appeared  Maisie  arrived  at  the  straight 
question  for  which,  on  their  entrance,  his 
first  word  had  given  opportunity.  "Are  we 
going  to  have  dejeimev  with  Mrs.  Beale  ?  " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      421 

His  reply  was  anything  but  straight. 
"You  and  I?" 

Maisie  sat  back  in  her  chair.  "  Mrs.  Wix 
and  me." 

Sir  Claude  also  shifted.  "That's  an  in- 
quiry, my  dear  child,  that  Mrs.  Beale  herself 
must  answer."  Yes,  he  had  shifted;  but 
abruptly,  after  a  moment  during  which 
something  seemed  to  hang  there  between 
them  and,  as  it  heavily  swayed,  just  fan 
them  with  the  air  of  its  motion,  she  felt 
that  the  whole  thing  was  upon  them.  "  Do 
you  mind,"  he  broke  out,  "my  asking  you 
what  Mrs.  Wix  has  said  to  you  ?  " 

"Said  to  me?" 

"This  day  or  two,  while  I  was  away." 

"  Do  you  mean  about  you  and  Mrs.  Beale  ? " 

Sir  Claude,  resting  on  his  elbows,  fixed 
his  eyes  a  moment  on  the  white  marble  be- 
neath them.  "No;  I  think  we  had  a  good 
deal  of  that  —  did  n't  we  ?  —  before  I  left  you. 
It  seems  to  me  we  had  it  pretty  well  all  out. 
I  mean  about  yourself,  about  your — don't 
you  know?  —  associating  with  us,  as  I  might 
say,  and  staying  on  with  us.  While  you 
were  alone  with  our  friend  what  did  she 
say?" 

Maisie  felt  the  weight  of  the  question; 


422      WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW 

it  made  her  waver  and  wonder,  while  her 
companion's  eyes  remained  bent.  "Noth- 
ing," she  rejoined  at  last. 

He  looked  up  in  surprise.     "  Nothing?  " 

"Nothing,"  Maisie  repeated;  on  which 
an  interruption  descended  in  the  form  of  a 
tray  bearing  the  preparations  for  their 
breakfast. 

These  preparations  were  as  amusing  as 
everything  else;  the  waiter  poured  their 
coffee  from  a  vessel  like  a  watering-pot  and 
then  made  it  froth  with  the  curved  stream  of 
hot  milk  that  dropped  from  the  height  of  his 
raised  arm ;  but  the  two  looked  across  at  each 
other,  through  the  whole  play  of  French  pleas- 
antness, with  a  gravity  that  had  now  ceased 
to  dissemble.  Sir  Claude  sent  the  waiter  off 
again  for  something  and  then  took  up  her 
answer.  "  Has  n't  she  tried  to  affect  you  ?  " 

Face  to  face  with  him  thus  it  seemed  to 
Maisie  that  she  had  tried  so  little  as  to  be 
scarce  worth  mentioning;  again  therefore, 
an  instant,  she  shut  herself  up.  Presently 
she  found  her  middle  course.  "  Mrs.  Beale 
likes  her  now;  and  there  's  one  thing  I  've 
found  out  —  a  great  thing.  Mrs.  Wix  enjoys 
her  being  so  kind.  She  was  tremendously 
kind  all  day  yesterday." 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      423 

"I  see.  And  what  did  she  do?"  Sir 
Claude  asked. 

Maisie  was  now  busy  with  her  breakfast, 
and  her  kind  host  attacked  his  own;  so 
that  it  was  all  in  form  at  least  even  more 
than  their  old  sociability.  "  Everything  she 
could  think  of.  She  was  as  nice  to  her  as 
you  are,"  the  child  said.  "  She  talked  to  her 
all  day." 

"And  what  did  she  say  to  her? " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Maisie  was  a  little 
bewildered  with  his  pressing  her  so  for 
knowledge;  it  didn't  fit  into  the  degree  of 
intimacy  with  Mrs.  Beale  that  Mrs.  Wix  had 
so  denounced  and  that,  according  to  that 
lady,  had  now  brought  him  back  in  bondage. 
Was  n't  he  more  aware  than  his  stepdaughter 
of  what  would  be  done  by  the  person  to 
whom  he  was  bound?  In  a  moment,  how- 
ever, she  added:  "She  made  love  to  her." 

Sir  Claude  looked  at  her  harder,  and  it 
was  clearly  something  in  her  tone  that  made 
him  quickly  say:  "You  don't  mind  my  ask- 
ing you,  do  you  ?  " 

"Not  at  all;  only  I  should  think  you'd 
know  better  than  I." 

"What  Mrs.  Beale  did  yesterday?" 

She    thought    he    colored    a    trifle;    but 


424      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

almost  simultaneously  with  that  impression 
she  found  herself  answering :  "  Yes  —  if  you 
have  seen  her." 

He  broke  into  the  loudest  of  laughs. 
"Why,  my  dear  boy,  I  told  you  just  now 
I  've  absolutely  not.  I  say,  don't  you  be- 
lieve me?" 

There  was  something  she  was  already  so 
afraid  of  that  it  covered  up  other  fears. 
"Didn't  you  come  back  to  see  her?"  she 
inquired  in  a  moment.  "Didn't  you  come 
back  because  you  always  want  to  so  much  ?  " 

He  received  her  inquiry  as  he  had  received 
her  doubt  —  with  an  extraordinary  absence 
of  resentment.  "  I  can  imagine,  of  course, 
why  you  think  that.  But  it  doesn't  explain 
my  doing  what  I  have.  It  was,  as  I  said  to 
you  just  now  at  the  inn,  really  and  truly  you 
I  wanted  to  see. " 

She  felt  an  instant  as  she  used  to  feel 
when,  in  the  back-garden  at  her  mother's, 
she  took  from  him  the  highest  push  of  a 
swing  —  high,  high,  high  —  that  he  had 
had  put  there  for  her  pleasure  and  that 
had  finally  broken  down  under  the  weight 
and  the  extravagant  patronage  of  the  cook. 
"Well,  that's  beautiful.  But  to  see  me, 
you  mean,  and  go  away  again  ? " 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      425 

"  My  going  away  again  is  just  the  point. 
I  can't  tell  yet  — it  all  depends." 

"  On  Mrs.  Beale  ?  "  Maisie  asked.  "  She 
won't  go  away."  He  finished  emptying  his 
coffee-cup  and  then  when  he  had  put  it 
aside  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  let  her 
see  that  he  smiled  at  her.  This  only  added 
to  her  idea  that  he  was  in  trouble,  that  he 
was  turning  somehow  in  his  pain  and  trying 
different  things.  He  continued  to  smile, 
and  she  presently  went  on:  "Don't  you 
know  that?" 

"  Yes,  I  may  as  well  confess  to  you  that  as 
much  as  that  I  do  know.  She  won't  go  away. 
She '11  stay." 

"She'll  stay.  She'll  stay,"  Maisie  re- 
peated. 

"Just  so.  Won't  you  have  some  more 
coffee?" 

"Yes,  please." 

"  And  another  buttered  roll  ?  " 

"Yes,  please." 

He  signed  to  the  hovering  waiter,  who 
arrived  with  the  shining  spout  of  plenty  in 
either  hand  and  with  the  friendliest  interest 
in  mademoiselle.  " Les  tartines  sent  /d." 
Their  cups  were  replenished,  and  while 
he  watched  almost  musingly  the  bubbles  in 


426      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

the  fragrant  mixture,  "Just  so  —  just  so," 
Sir  Claude  said  again  and  again.  "  It's 
awfully  awkward !  "  he  exclaimed  when  the 
waiter  had  gone. 

"That  she  won't  go?" 

«  Well  —  everything !  Well,  well,  well !  " 
But  he  pulled  himself  together;  he  began 
again  to  eat.  "I  came  back  to  ask  you 
something.  That 's  what  I  came  back  for." 

"  I  know  what  you  want  to  ask  me,"  Maisie 
said. 

"  Are  you  very  sure  ?  " 

"I'm  almost  very. " 

"Well,  then,  risk  it.  You  mustn't  make 
me  risk  everything. " 

She  was  struck  with  the  force  of  this. 
"You  want  to  know  if  I  should  be  happy 
with  them" 

"  With  those  two  ladies  only  ?  No,  no,  old 
man  :  vous-n 'y-$tes  pas.  So  now  —  there ! " 
Sir  Claude  laughed. 

"Well  then,  what  is  it?" 

The  next  minute,  instead  of  telling  her 
what  it  was,  he  laid  his  hand  across  the 
table  on  her  own  and  held  her  as  if  under 
the  prompting  of  a  thought.  "Mrs.  Wix 
would  stay  with  her?" 

"  Without  you  ?     Oh  yes  —  now. " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      427 

"On  account,  as  you  just  intimated,  of 
Mrs.  Beale's  changed  manner?  " 

Maisie,  with  her  sense  of  responsibility, 
focussed  both  Mrs.  Beale's  changed  manner 
and  Mrs.  Wix's  human  weakness.  "I  think 
she  talked  her  over. " 

Sir  Claude  thought  a  moment.  "Ah, 
poor  dear!" 

"Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Beale?" 

"Oh  no  — Mrs.  Wix." 

"  She  likes  being  talked  over  —  treated 
like  any  one  else.  Oh,  she  likes  great 
politeness,"  Maisie  expatiated.  "It  affects 
her  very  much." 

Sir  Claude,  to  her  surprise,  demurred  a 
little  to  this.  "Very  much  —  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point." 

"  Oh,  up  to  any  point ! "  Maisie  returned 
with  emphasis. 

"Well,  haven't  I  been  polite  to  her? " 

"  Lovely  —  and  she  perfectly  worships 
you." 

"Then,  my  dear  child,  why  can't  she  let 
me  alone  ?  "  And  this  time  Sir  Claude  un- 
mistakably blushed.  Before  Maisie,  how- 
ever, could  answer  his  question,  which  would 
indeed  have  taken  her  long,  he  went  on  in 
another  tone :  "  Mrs.  Beale  thinks  she  has 


428      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

probably  quite  broken  her  down.     But  she 
hasn't." 

Though  he  spoke  as  if  he  were  sure, 
Maisie  was  strong  in  the  impression  she 
had  just  uttered  and  that  she  now  again  pro- 
duced. "  She  has  talked  her  over. " 

"  Ah  yes ;  over  to  herself,  but  not  over  to 
me." 

Oh,  she  could  n't  bear  to  hear  him  say 
that!  "To  you?  Don't  you  really  believe 
how  she  loves  you  ?  " 

Sir  Claude  hesitated.  "Of  course,  I 
know  she  's  wonderful." 

"  She  's  just  every  bit  as  fond  of  you  as  / 
am,"  said  Maisie.  "She  told  me  so  yester- 
day." 

"Ah,  then,"  he  promptly  exclaimed,  "she 
has  tried  to  affect  you!  I  don't  love  her, 
don't  you  see?  I  do  her  perfect  justice,"  he 
pursued,  "but  I  mean  I  don't  love  her  as  I 
do  you,  and  I  'm  sure  you  would  n't  seriously 
expect  it.  She  's  not  my  daughter  —  come, 
old  chap!  She's  not  even  my  mother, 
though  I  dare  say  it  would  have  been  better 
for  me  if  she  had  been.  I  '11  do  for  her 
what  I  'd  do  for  my  mother,  but  I  won't  do 
more."  His  real  excitement  broke  out  in  a 
need  to  explain  and  justify  himself,  though 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      429 

he  kept  trying  to  correct  and  conceal  it  with 
laughs  and  mouthfuls  and  other  vain  famil- 
iarities. Suddenly  he  broke  off,  wiping 
his  moustache  with  sharp  pulls  and  coming 
back  to  Mrs.  Beale.  "  Did  she  try  to  talk 
you  over  ? " 

"  No  —  to  me  she  said  very  little.  Very 
little  indeed,"  Maisie  continued. 

Sir  Claude  seemed  struck  with  this.  "  She 
was  only  sweet  to  Mrs.  Wix  ?  " 

'*  As  sweet  as  sugar !  "  cried  Maisie. 

He  looked  amused  at  her  comparison,  but 
he  did  n't  contest  it;  he  uttered,  on  the  con- 
trary, in  an  assenting  way,  a  little  inarticu- 
late sound.  "  I  know  what  she  can  be.  But 
much  good  may  it  have  done  her!  Mrs. 
Wix  won't  come  round.  That 's  what  makes 
it  so  fearfully  awkward." 

Maisie  knew  it  was  fearfully  awkward ;  she 
had  known  this  now,  she  felt,  for  some  time, 
and  there  was  something  else  it  more  press- 
ingly  concerned  her  to  learn.  "  What  is  it 
that  you  meant  you  came  over  to  ask  me? " 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Claude,  "I  was  just 
going  to  say.  Let  me  tell  you  it  wil]  sur- 
prise you."  She  had  finished  breakfast  now 
and  she  sat  back  in  her  chair  again ;  she 
waited  in  silence  to  hear.  He  had  pushed 


430      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

the  things  before  him  a  little  way  and  had 
his  elbows  on  the  table.  This  time  she  was 
convinced  she  knew  what  was  coming,  and 
once  more,  for  the  crash,  as  with  Mrs.  Wix 
lately  in  their  room,  she  held  her  breath  and 
drew  together  her  eyes.  He  was  going  to 
say  that  she  must  give  him  up.  He  looked 
hard  at  her  again ;  then  he  made  his  effort. 
"  Should  you  see  your  way  to  let  her  go  ?  " 

She  was  bewildered.     "  To  let  who  —  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Wix,  simply.  I  put  it  at  the  worst. 
Should  you  see  your  way  to  sacrifice  her? 
Of  course  I  know  what  I  'm  asking." 

Maisie's  eyes  opened  wide  again;  this 
was  so  different  from  what  she  had  expected. 
"And  stay  with  you  alone?  " 

He  gave  another  push  to  his  coffee-cup. 
"With  me  and  Mrs.  Beale.  Of  course  it 
would  be  rather  rum ;  but  everything  in  our 
whole  story  is  rather  rum,  you  know.  What 
is  more  unusual  than  for  any  one  to  be  given 
up,  like  you,  by  her  parents?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  is  more  unusual  than  that  !  " 
Maisie  concurred,  relieved  at  the  contact  of 
a  proposition  as  to  which  concurrence  could 
have  lucidity. 

"  Of  course  it  would  be  quite  unconven- 
tional," Sir  Claude  went  on  —  "I  mean  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      431 

little  household  we  three  should  make  to- 
gether; but  things  have  got  beyond  that, 
don't  you  see?  They  got  beyond  that  long 
ago.  We  shall  stay  abroad  at  any  rate  —  it 's 
ever  so  much  easier,  and  it  's  our  affair  and 
nobody  else's:  it's  no  one's  business  but 
ours  on  all  the  blessed  earth.  I  don't  say 
that  for  Mrs.  Wix,  poor  dear  —  I  do  her 
absolute  justice.  I  respect  her;  I  see  what 
she  means ;  she  has  done  me  a  lot  of  good. 
But  there  are  the  facts.  There  they  are, 
simply.  And  here  am  I,  and  here  are  you. 
And  she  won't  come  round.  She  's  right, 
from  her  point  of  view.  I  'm  talking  to  you 
in  the  most  extraordinary  way  —  I  'm  always 
talking  to  you  in  the  most  extraordinary  way, 
ain't  I?  One  would  think  you  were  about 
sixty,  and  that  I  —  I  don't  know  what  any 
one  would  think  /  am.  Unless  a  beastly 
cad  !  "  he  suggested.  "  I  've  been  awfully 
worried,  and  this  is  what  it  has  come  to. 
You  've  done  us  the  most  tremendous  good, 
and  you  '11  do  it  still  and  always,  don't  you 
see?  We  can't  let  you  go  —  you're  every- 
thing. There  are  the  facts,  as  I  say.  She 
is  your  mother  now,  Mrs.  Beale,  by  what 
has  happened,  and  I,  in  the  same  way,  I  'm 
your  father.  No  one  can  contradict  that,  and 


432      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

we  can't  get  out  of  it.     My  idea  would  be  a 
nice  little  place  —  somewhere  in  the  south 

—  where  she  and  you  would  be  together  and 
as  good  as  any  one  else.     And  I  should  be 
as  good  too,  don't  you  see?  for  I  should  n't 
live  with  you,  but  I  should  be  close  to  you 

—  just  round  the  corner,  and  it  would  be  just 
the  same.     My  idea  would  be  that  it  should 
all  be  perfectly  open  and  frank.     Honi  soit 
qui  mat y pense,  don't  you  know?     You're 
the  best  thing  —  you  and  what  we  can  do  for 
you  —  that  either  of  us  has  ever  known  :  "  he 
came  back  to  that.     "When  I  say  to   her 
'  Give  her  up,  come, '  she  lets  me  have  it 
bang  in  the  face.     '  Give  her  up  yourself ! ' 
It's  the  same  old  vicious  circle;    and  when 
I  say  vicious  I  don't  mean  a  pun  or  a  what- 
d'ye-call-'em.     Mrs.  Wix  is  the  obstacle  — 
I  mean,  you  know,  if  she  has  affected  you. 
She  has  affected  me,  and  yet  here  I  am.      I 
never  was  in  such  a  tight  place :  please  be- 
lieve it 's  only  that  that  makes  me  put  it  to 
you  as  I  do.     My  dear  child,  isn't  that  —  to 
put  it   so  —  just  the  way  out  of  it  ?     That 
came  to  me  yesterday,  in  London,  after  Mrs. 
Beale   had   gone:    I  had  the  most  infernal, 
atrocious  day.     '  Go  straight  over  and  put  it 
to  her :  let  her  choose,  freely,  her  own  self. ' 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      433 

So  I  do,  old  girl  —  I  put  it  to  you.  Can 
you  choose  freely  ?  " 

This  long  address,  slowly  and  brokenly 
uttered,  with  fidgets  and  falterings,  with 
lapses  and  recoveries,  with  a  mottled  face 
and  embarrassed  but  supplicating  eyes, 
reached  the  child  from  a  quarter  so  close 
that  after  the  shock  of  the  first  sharpness 
she  could  see,  intensely,  its  direction  and 
follow  it  from  point  to  point;  all  the  more 
that  it  came  back  to  the  point  at  which  it 
had  started.  There  was  a  word  that  had 
hummed  all  through  it.  "  Do  you  call  it  a 
'sacrifice?'" 

"  Of  Mrs.  Wix?  I  '11  call  it  whatever  you 
call  it.  I  won't  funk  it  —  I  have  n't,  have  I  ? 
I  '11  face  it  in  all  its  baseness.  Does  it 
strike  you  it  is  base  for  me  to  get  you  well 
away  from  her,  to  smuggle  you  off  here  into 
a  corner  and  bribe  you  with  sophistries  and 
buttered  rolls  to  betray  her  ?  " 

"To  betray  her?" 

"Well  — to  part  with  her." 

Maisie  let  the  question  wait ;  the  concrete 
image  it  presented  was  the  most  vivid  side 
of  it.  "If  I  part  with  her  where  will 
she  go  ? " 

"Back  to  London." 


434      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

"  But  I  mean  what  will  she  do  ? " 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  I  won't  pretend  I  know. 
I  don't.  We  all  have  our  difficulties." 

That,  to  Maisie,  was  at  this  moment  more 
striking  than  it  had  ever  been.  "  Then  who 
will  teach  me?  " 

Sir  Claude  laughed  out.  "What  Mrs. 
Wix  teaches?" 

Maisie  smiled  dimly;  she  saw  what  he 
meant.  "It  isn't  very,  very  much." 

"It's  so  very,  very  little,"  he  rejoined, 
"that  that 's  a  thing  we  've  positively  to  con- 
sider. We  probably  should  n't  give  you 
another  governess.  To  begin  with,  we 
shouldn't  be  able  to  get  one  —  not  of  the 
only  kind  that  would  do.  It  wouldn't  do  — 
the  kind  that  would  to  "  he  queerly  enough 
explained.  "  I  mean  they  would  n't  stay  — 
heigh-ho!  We  'd  do  you  ourselves.  Partic- 
ularly me.  You  see  I  can  now;  I  haven't 
got  to  mind  —  what  I  used  to.  I  won't  fight 
shy  as  I  did  —  she  can  show  out  with  me. 
Our  relation,  all  round,  is  more  regular. " 

It  seemed  wonderfully  regular,  the  way 
he  put  it;  yet  none  the  less,  while  she 
looked  at  it  as  judiciously  as  she  could,  the 
picture  it  made  persisted  somehow  in  being 
a  combination  quite  distinct  —  an  old  woman 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      435 

and  a  little  girl  seated  in  deep  silence  on  a 
battered  old  bench  by  the  rampart  of  the 
haiLte  mile.  It  was  just  at  that  hour  yester- 
day; they  were  hand  in  hand;  they  had 
melted  together.  "I  don't  think  you  yet 
understand  how  she  clings  to  you,"  Maisie 
said  at  last. 

"I  do  — I  do.  But  for  all  that  — !"  And 
he  gave,  turning  in  his  conscious  exposure, 
an  oppressed,  impatient  sigh;  the  sigh,  even 
his  companion  could  recognize,  of  the  man 
naturally  accustomed  to  that  argument,  the 
man  who  wanted  thoroughly  to  be  reasonable, 
but  who,  if  really  he  had  to  mind  so  many 
things,  would  be  always  impossibly  ham- 
pered. What  it  came  to  indeed  was  that  he 
understood  quite  perfectly.  If  Mrs.  Wix 
clung  it  was  all  the  more  reason  for  shaking 
Mrs.  Wix  off. 

This  vision  of  what  she  had  brought  him 
to  occupied  our  young  lady  while,  to  ask 
what  he  owed,  he  called  the  waiter  and  put 
down  a  gold  piece  that  the  man  carried  off 
for  change.  Sir  Claude  looked  after  him, 
then  went  on :  "  How  could  a  woman  have 
less  to  reproach  a  fellow  with?  I  mean  as 
regards  herself." 

Maisie  entertained  the  question.     "Yes, 


436      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

How  could  she  have  less  ?  So  why  are  you 
so  sure  she  '11  go?" 

"Surely  you  heard  why  —  you  heard  her 
come  out  three  nights  ago  ?  How  can  she  do 
anything  but  go  —  after  what  she  then  said  ? 
I  've  done  what  she  warned  me  of  —  she  was 
absolutely  right.  So  here  we  are.  Her 
liking  Mrs.  Beale,  as  you  call  it,  now,  is  a 
motive  sufficient  with  other  things  to  make 
her,  for  your  sake,  stay  on  without  me;  it 's 
not  a  motive  sufficient  to  make  her,  even  for 
yours,  stay  on  with  me  —  swallow,  in  short, 
what  she  can't  swallow.  And  when  you 
say  she  's  as  fond  of  me  as  you  are  I  think  I 
can,  if  that 's  the  case,  challenge  you  a  little 
on  it.  Would  you,  only  with  those  two,  stay 
on  without  me  ?  "  The'  waiter  came  back 
with  the  change,  and  that  gave  her,  under 
this  appeal,  a  moment's  respite.  But  when 
he  had  retreated  again  with  the  "tip"  gath- 
ered in  with  graceful  thanks,  on  a  subtle 
hint  from  Sir  Claude's  forefinger,  the  latter 
while  he  pocketed  the  money  followed  the 
appeal  up.  "Would  you  let  her  make  you 
live  with  Mrs.  Beale?  " 

"Without  you?  Never,"  Maisie  then  an- 
swered. "Never,"  she  said  again. 

It  made  him  quite  triumph,  and  she  was 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      437 

indeed  herself  shaken  by  the  mere  sound  of 
it.  "So  you  see  you  're  not,  like  her,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  so  ready  to  give  me  away !  " 
Then  he  came  back  to  his  original  question. 
"  Can  you  choose?  I  mean  can  you  settle 
it,  by  a  word,  yourself?  Will  you  stay  on 
with  us  without  her?  " 

Now  in  truth  she  felt  the  coldness  of  her 
terror,  and  it  Seemed  to  her  that  suddenly 
she  knew,  as  she  knew  it  about  Sir  Claude, 
what  she  was  afraid  of.  She  was  afraid  of 
herself.  She  looked  at  him  in  such  a  way 
that  it  brought,  she  could  see,  wonder  into 
his  face,  a  wonder  held  in  check,  however, 
by  his  frank  pretension  to  play  fair  with 
her,  not  to  use  advantages,  not  to  hurry  nor 
hustle  her  —  only  to  put  her  chance  clearly 
and  kindly  before  her.  "May  I  think?" 
she  finally  asked. 

"  Certainly,  certainly.     But  how  long  ?  " 

"Oh,  only  a  little  while,"  she  said 
meekly. 

He  had  for  a  moment  the  air  of  wishing 
to  look  at  it  as  if  it  were  the  most  cheerful 
prospect  in  the  world.  "But  what  shall  we 
do  while  you're  thinking?"  He  spoke  as 
if  thought  were  compatible  with  almost  any 
distraction. 


438      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

There  was  but  one  thing  Maisie  wished  to 
do,  and  after  an  instant  she  expressed  it. 
"  Have  we  got  to  go  back  to  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  ?  " 

"Oh  no." 

"There's  not  the  least  necessity  for  it." 
He  bent  his  eyes  on  his  watch ;  his  face  was 
now  very  grave.  "We  can  do  anything  else 
in  the  world."  He  looked  at  her  again  al- 
most as  if  he  were  on  the  point  of  saying  that 
they  might  for  instance  start  off  for  Paris. 
But  even  while  she  wondered  if  that  were 
not  coming  he  had  a  sudden  drop.  "We 
can  take  a  walk." 

She  was  all  ready,  but  he  sat  there  as  if 
he  had  still  something  more  to  say.  This 
too,  however,  didn't  come;  so  she  herself 
spoke.  "  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  Mrs. 
Wix  first." 

"  Before  you  decide  ?  All  right  —  all 
right."  He  had  put  on  his  hat,  but  he  had 
still  to  light  a  cigarette.  He  smoked  a 
minute,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  looking 
at  the  ceiling;  then  he  said:  "There  's  one 
thing  to  remember  —  I  've  a  right  to  impress 
it  on  you :  we  stand  absolutely  in  the  place 
of  your  parents.  It's  their  defection,  their 
extraordinary  baseness,  that  has  made  our 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      439 

responsibility.  Never  was  a  young  person 
more  directly  committed  and  confided."  He 
appeared  to  say  this  over,  at  the  ceiling, 
through  his  smoke,  a  little  for  his  own  illu- 
mination. It  carried  him,  after  a  pause, 
somewhat  further.  "Though,  I  admit,  it 
was  to  each  of  us  separately." 

He  gave  her  so,  at  that  moment  and  in 
that  attitude,  the  sense  of  wanting,  as  it 
were,  to  be  on  her  side —  on  the  side  of  what 
would  be  in  every  way  most  right  and  wise 
and  charming  for  her  —  that  she  felt  a  sudden 
desire  to  show  herself  as  not  less  delicate 
and  magnanimous,  not  less  solicitous  for  his 
own  interests.  What  were  these  but  that  of 
the  "regularity"  he  had  just  before  spoken 
of?  "  It  was  to  each  of  you  separately,"  she 
accordingly,  with  much  earnestness,  re- 
marked ;  "  but  —  don't  you  remember  ?  —  I 
brought  you  together." 

He  jumped  up  with  a  delighted  laugh. 
"You  brought  us  together,  you  brought  us 
together.  Come !  " 

XXXI 

SHE  remained  out  with  him  for  a  time  of 
which  she  could  take  no  measure  save  that 


440      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

it  was  too  short  for  what  she  wished  to  make 
of  it  —  an  interval,  a  barrier,  indefinite, 
insurmountable.  They  walked  about,  they 
dawdled,  they  looked  in  shop-windows ;  they 
did  all  the  old  things  exactly  as  if  to  try  to 
get  back  all  the  old  safety,  to  get  something 
out  of  them  that  they  had  always  got  before. 
This  had  come  before,  whatever  it  was, 
without  their  trying,  and  nothing  came  now 
but  the  intenser  consciousness  of  their  quest 
and  their  subterfuge.  The  strangest  thing 
of  all  was  what  had  really  happened  to  the 
old  safety.  What  had  really  happened  was 
that  Sir  Claude  was  "free"  and  that  Mrs. 
Beale  was  "free,"  and  yet  that  the  new 
medium  was  somehow  still  more  oppressive 
than  the  old.  She  could  feel  that  Sir  Claude 
concurred  with  her  in  the  sense  that  the 
oppression  would  be  worst  at  the  inn,  where, 
till  something  should  be  settled,  they  would 
feel  the  want  of  something  —  of  what  could 
they  call  it  but  a  footing?  The  question  of 
the  settlement  loomed  larger  to  her  now ;  it 
depended,  she  had  learned,  so  completely 
on  herself.  Her  choice,  as  her  friend  had 
called  it,  was  there  before  her  like  an  impos- 
sible sum  on  a  slate,  a  sum  that,  in  spite  of 
her  plea  for  consideration,  she  simply  got 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      441 

off  from  doing  while  she  walked  about  with 
him.  She  must  see  Mrs.  Wix  before  she 
could  do  her  sum ;  therefore  the  longer 
before  she  saw  her  the  more  distant  would 
be  the  ordeal.  She  met  at  present  no  de- 
mand whatever  of  her  obligation;  she 
simply  plunged,  to  avoid  it,  deeper  into  the 
company  of  Sir  Claude.  She  saw  nothing 
that  she  had  seen  hitherto  —  no  touch  in  the 
foreign  picture  that  had  at  first  been  always 
before  her.  The  only  touch  was  that  of  Sir 
Claude's  hand,  and  to  feel  her  own  in  it  was 
her  mute  resistance  to  time.  She  went 
about  as  sightlessly  as  if  he  had  been  leading 
her  blindfold.  If  they  were  afraid  of  them- 
selves it  was  themselves  they  would  find  at 
the  inn.  She  was  certain  now  that  what 
awaited  them  there  would  be  to  lunch  with 
Mrs.  Beale.  All  her  instinct  was  to  avoid 
that,  to  draw  out  their  walk,  to  find  pretexts, 
to  take  him  down  upon  the  sands,  to  take 
him  to  the  end  of  the  pier.  He  said  not 
another  word  to  her  about  what  they  had 
talked  of  at  breakfast,  and  she  had  a  dim 
vision  of  how  his  way  of  not  letting  her  see 
that  he  was  waiting  for  anything  from  her 
would  make  any  one  who  should  know  of  it, 
would  make  Mrs.  Wix  for  instance,  think 


442      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

him  more  than  ever  a  gentleman.  It  was 
true  that  once  or  twice,  on  the  jetty,  on  the 
sands,  he  looked  at  her  for  an  instant  with 
eyes  that  seemed  to  propose  to  her  to  come 
straight  off  with  him  to  Paris.  That,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  give  her  a  nudge  about  her 
responsibility.  He  evidently  wanted  to  pro- 
crastinate quite  as  much  as  she  —  he  was 
not  a  bit  more  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the 
others.  Maisie  herself,  at  this  moment, 
could  be  secretly  merciless  to  Mrs.  Wix  — 
to  the  extent  at  any  rate  of  not  caring  if 
her  continued  disappearance  did  make  that 
lady  begin  to  worry  about  what  had  become 
of  her,  even  begin  to  wonder  perhaps  if 
the  truants  had  n't  found  their  remedy.  Her 
want  of  mercy  to  Mrs.  Beale,  indeed,  was  at 
least  as  great;  for  Mrs.  Beale' s  worry  and 
wonder  would  be  as  much  greater  as  the 
object  to  which  they  were  directed.  When 
at  last  Sir  Claude,  at  the  far  end  of  \heplage, 
which  they  had  already,  in  the  many -colored 
crowd,  once  traversed,  suddenly,  with  a 
look  at  his  watch,  remarked  that  it  was  time, 
not  to  get  back  to  the  table  c£ kote,  but  to  get 
over  to  the  station  and  meet  the  Paris  papers 
—  when  he  did  this  she  found  herself  think- 
ing, quite  with  intensity,  what  Mrs.  Beale 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      443 

and  Mrs.  Wix  would  say.  On  the  way  over 
to  the  station  she  had  even  a  mental  picture 
of  the  stepfather  and  the  pupil  established 
in  a  little  place  in  the  south  while  the 
governess  and  the  stepmother,  in  a  little 
place  in  the  north,  remained  linked  by  a 
community  of  blankness  and  by  the  endless 
theme  of  intercourse  it  would  afford.  The 
Paris  papers  had  come  in,  and  her  compan- 
ion, with  a  strange  extravagance,  bought  no 
less  of  them  than  nine:  it  took  up  time 
while  they  hovered  at  the  bookstall  on  the 
restless  platform,  where  the  little  volumes 
in  a  row  were  all  yellow  and  pink  and  one 
of  her  favorite  old  women,  in  one  of  her 
favorite  old  caps,  absolutely  wheedled  him 
into  the  purchase  of  three.  They  had  thus 
so  much  to  carry  home  that  it  would  have 
seemed  simpler,  with  such  a  provision  for 
a  nice  straight  journey  through  France,  just 
to  "nip,"  as  she  phrased  it  to  herself,  into 
the  coupe  of  the  train  that,  a  little  further 
along,  stood  waiting  to  start.  She  asked 
Sir  Claude  where  it  was  going. 

"To  Paris.     Fancy!" 

She  could  fancy  well  enough.  They  stood 
there  and  smiled,  he  with  all  the  newspapers 
under  his  arm  and  she  with  the  three  books, 


444      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

one  yellow  and  two  pink.  He  had  told  her 
the  pink  were  for  herself  and  the  yellow  one 
for  Mrs.  Beale,  implying,  in  an  interesting 
way,  that  these  were  the  vivid  divisions,  in 
France,  of  literature  for  the  young  and  for 
the  old.  She  knew  that  they  looked  exactly 
as  if  they  were  going  to  get  into  the  train, 
and  she  presently  brought  out  to  her  com- 
panion :  "  I  wish  we  could  go.  Won't  you 
take  me  ? " 

He  continued  to  smile.  "Would  you 
really  come  ? " 

"Oh  yes,  oh  yes!     Try!" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  take  our  tickets?" 

"Yes,  take  them." 

"  Without  any  luggage  ?  " 

She  showed  their  two  armfuls,  smiling  at 
him  as  he  smiled  at  her,  but  so  conscious  of 
being  more  frightened  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  life,  that  she  seemed  to  catch 
all  her  whiteness  as  in  a  glass.  Then  she 
knew  that  what  she  saw  was  Sir  Claude's 
whiteness ;  he  was  as  frightened  as  herself. 
"Haven't  we  got  plenty?"  she  asked. 
"  Take  the  tickets  —  have  n't  you  time  ? 
When  does  the  train  go  ? " 

Sir  Claude  turned  to  a  porter.  "When 
does  the  train  go  ? " 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      445 

The  man  looked  up  at  the  station  clock. 
"In  two  minutes.  Monsieur  est  plact ? " 

"  Pas  encore. " 

"  Vous  ri avez  qtie  le  temps."  Then,  after 
a  look  at  Maisie,  "Monsieur  veut-il  que  je 
les  prenne?  "  the  man  inquired. 

Sir  Claude  turned  back  to  her.  "  Veux-tu 
bien  qu'il  en  prenne  f  " 

It  was  the  most  extraordinary  thing  in  the 
world :  in  the  intensity  of  her  excitement 
she  not  only,  by  illumination,  understood 
all  their  French,  but  fell  into  it  with  an 
active  perfection.  She  addressed  herself 
straight  to  the  porter.  " Prenny,  prenny. 
Oh,  prenny!" 

"Ah,  si  mademoiselle  le  veut — /"  He 
waited  there  for  the  money. 

But  Sir  Claude  only  stared  —  stared  at  her 
with  his  pale  face.  "You  have  chosen, 
then?  You'll  let  her  go?" 

Maisie  carried  her  eyes  wistfully  to  the 
train,  where,  amid  cries  of  "En  voiture, 
en  voiture!"  heads  were  at  windows  and 
doors  were  banging  loud.  The  porter 
was  pressing.  "  Oh,  vous  rf avez  plus  le 
temps  !  " 

"  It 's  going  —  it 's  going ! "  cried  Maisie. 

They  watched  it  move,  they  watched   it 


446      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

start;  then   the  man  went  his  way  with  a 
shrug.      "  It 's  gone !  "  Sir  Claude  said. 

Maisie  crept  some  distance  up  the  plat- 
form ;  she  stood  there  with  her  back  to  her 
companion,  following  it  with  her  eyes,  keep- 
ing down  tears,  nursing  her  pink  and  yellow 
books.  She  had  had  a  real  fright,  but  had 
fallen  back  to  earth.  The  odd  thing  was 
that  in  her  fall  her  fear  too  had  been  dashed 
down  and  broken.  It  was  gone.  She  looked 
round  at  last,  from  where  she  had  paused, 
at  Sir  Claude's,  and  then  she  saw  that  his 
was  not.  It  sat  there  with  him  on  the  bench 
to  which,  against  the  wall  of  the  station,  he 
had  retreated  and  where,  leaning  back  and, 
as  she  thought,  very  queer,  he  still  waited. 
She  came  down  to  him,  and  he  continued  to 
offer  his  ineffectual  intention  of  pleasantry. 
"  Yes,  I  've  chosen,"  she  said  to  him.  "  I  '11 
let  her  go  if  you  —  if  you  —  " 

She  faltered;  he  quickly  took  her  up. 
"If  I,  if  I—?" 

"  If  you  '11  give  up  Mrs.  Beale." 

"  Oh  !  "  he  exclaimed ;  on  which  she  saw 
how  much,  how  hopelessly  he  was  afraid. 
She  had  supposed  at  the  cafe  that  it  was  of 
his  rebellion,  of  his  gathering  motive;  but 
how  could  that  be  when  his  temptations  — 


WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW      447 

that  temptation  for  instance  of  the  train  they 
had  just  lost  —  were,  after  all,  so  small  ? 
Mrs.  Wix  was  right.  He  was  afraid  of  his 
weakness  —  of  his  weakness. 

She  could  not  have  told  you  afterwards 
how  they  got  back  to  the  inn:  she  could 
only  have  told  you  that  even  from  this  point 
they  had  not  gone  straight,  but  once  more 
had  wandered  and  loitered  and,  in  the  course 
of  it,  had  found  themselves  on  the  edge  of 
the  quay,  where  —  still,  apparently,  with 
half  an  hour  to  spare  —  the  boat  prepared 
for  Folkestone  was  drawn  up.  Here  they 
hovered  as  they  had  done  at  the  station ;  here 
they  exchanged  silences  again,  but  only 
exchanged  silences.  There  were  punctual 
people  on  the  deck,  choosing  places,  taking 
the  best;  some  of  them  already  contented, 
all  established  and  shawled,  facing  to  Eng- 
land and  attended  by  the  steward,  who,  con- 
fined on  such  a  day  to  the  lighter  offices, 
tucked  up  the  ladies'  feet  or  opened  bottles 
with  a  pop.  They  looked  down  at  these 
things  without  a  word  ;  they  even  picked  out 
a  good  place  for  two  that  was  left  in  the  lee 
of  a  lifeboat;  and  if  they  lingered  rather 
stupidly,  neither  deciding  to  go  aboard  nor 
deciding  to  come  away,  it  was,  quite  as 


448      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

much  as  she,  Sir  Claude  who  would  n't  move. 
It  was  Sir  Claude  who  cultivated  the  su- 
preme stillness  by  which  she  knew  best  what 
he  meant.  He  simply  meant  that  he  knew 
all  she  herself  meant.  But  there  was  no 
pretence  of  pleasantry  now ;  their  faces  were 
grave  and  tired.  When  at  last  they  lounged 
off  it  was  as  if  his  fear,  his  fear  of  his  weak- 
ness, leaned  upon  her  hard  while  they  fol- 
lowed the  harbor.  In  the  hall  of  the  hotel, 
as  they  passed  in,  she  saw  a  battered  old  box 
that  she  recognized,  an  ancient  receptacle 
with  dangling  labels  that  she  knew  and  a 
big  painted  W,  lately  done  over  and  in- 
tensely personal,  that  seemed  to  stare  at 
her  with  a  recognition  and  even  with  some 
suspicion  of  its  own.  Sir  Claude  caught  it 
too,  and  there  was  agitation  for  both  of  them 
in  the  sight  of  this  object  on  the  move. 
Was  Mrs.  Wix  going,  and  was  the  responsi- 
bility of  giving  her  up  lifted,  at  a  touch, 
from  her  pupil?  Her  pupil  and  her  pupil's 
companion,  transfixed  a  moment,  held,  in 
the  presence  of  the  omen,  communication 
more  intense  than  in  the  presence  either  of 
the  Paris  train  or  of  the  Channel  steamer; 
then,  and  still  without  a  word,  they  went 
straight  upstairs.  There,  however,  on  the 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      449 

landing,  out  of  sight  of  the  people  below, 
they  collapsed  so  that  they  had  to  sink  down 
together  for  support:  they  simply  seated 
themselves  on  the  uppermost  step  while  Sir 
Claude  grasped  the  hand  of  his  stepdaughter 
with  a  pressure  that  at  another  moment 
would  probably  have  made  her  squeal. 
Their  books  and  papers  were  all  scattered. 
"  She  thinks  you  've  given  her  up ! " 

"  Then  I  must  see  her  —  I  must  see  her ! " 
Maisie  said. 

"To  bid  her  good-bye ?" 

"I  must  see  her — I  must  see  her!"  the 
child  only  repeated. 

They  sat  a  minute  longer,  Sir  Claude  with 
his  tight  grip  of  her  hand  and  looking  away 
from  her,  looking  straight  down  the  staircase 
to  where,  round  the  turn,  electric  bells 
rattled  and  the  pleasant  sea-draught  blew. 
At  last,  loosening  his  grasp,  he  slowly  rose, 
on  which  she  did  the  same.  They  went 
together  along  the  lobby;  but  before  they 
reached  the  salon  he  stopped  again.  "If  I 
give  up  Mrs.  Beale  —  ?" 

"I  '11  go  straight  out  with  you  again  and 
not  come  back  till  she  has  gone." 

He  seemed  to  wonder.  "Till  Mrs. 
Beale  —  ?" 

29 


450      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

He  had  made  it  sound  like  a  bad  joke. 
"  I  mean  till  Mrs.  Wix  leaves  —  in  that  boat." 

Sir  Claude  looked  almost  foolish.  "Is 
she  going  in  that  boat  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  won't  even  bid  her 
good-bye,"  Maisie  continued;  "I  '11  stay 
out  till  the  boat  has  gone.  I  '11  go  up  to 
the  old  rampart." 

"The  old  rampart?" 

"I  '11  sit  on  that  old  bench  where  you  see 
the  gold  Virgin." 

"The  gold  Virgin?"  he  vaguely  echoed. 
But  it  brought  his  eyes  back  to  her  as  if, 
after  an  instant,  he  could  see  the  place  and 
the  thing  she  named  —  could  see  her  sitting 
there  alone.  "While  I  break  with  Mrs. 
Beale?" 

"While  you  break  with  Mrs.  Beale." 

He  gave  a  long,  deep,  smothered  sigh. 
"  I  must  see  her  first. " 

"You  won't  do  as  I  do?  Go  out  and 
wait  ? " 

"Wait?"  —  once  more  he  appeared  at  a 
loss. 

"Till  they  both  have  gone,"  Maisie  said. 

"  Giving  us  up  ?  " 

"  Giving  us  up. " 

Oh,  with  what  a  face,  for  an  instant,  he 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      451 

wondered  if  that  could  be !  But  his  wonder 
the  next  moment  only  made  him  go  to  the 
door  and,  with  his  hand  on  the  knob,  stand 
as  if  listening  for  voices.  Maisie  listened, 
but  she  heard  none.  All  she  heard,  pres- 
ently, was  Sir  Claude's  saying,  with  specula- 
tion quite  averted,  but  so  as  not  to  be  heard 
in  the  salon:  "Mrs.  Beale  will  never  go." 
On  this  he  pushed  open  the  door,  and  she 
went  in  with  him.  The  salon  was  empty, 
but,  as  an  effect  of  their  entrance,  the  lady 
he  had  just  mentioned  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  bedroom.  "Is  she  going?"  he  then 
demanded. 

Mrs.  Beale  came  forward,  closing  her 
door  behind  her.  "I've  had  the  most 
extraordinary  scene  with  her.  She  told  me 
yesterday  she  'd  stay." 

"  And  my  arrival  has  altered  it  ?  " 
"  Oh,  we  took  that  into  account !  "  Mrs. 
Beale  was  flushed,  which  was  never  quite 
becoming  to  her,  and  her  face  visibly  testi- 
fied to  the  encounter  to  which  she  alluded. 
Evidently,  however,  she  had  not  been 
worsted,  and  she  held  up  her  head  and 
smiled  and  rubbed  her  hands  as  if  in  sud- 
den emulation  of  \h.z patronne.  "She  prom- 
ised she  'd  stay  even  if  you  should  come." 


452      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"  Then  why  has  she  changed  ? " 

"Because  she  's  an  idiot.  The  reason  she 
herself  gives  is  that  you  've  been  out  too 
long. " 

Sir  Claude  stared.  "  What  has  that  to  do 
with  it?" 

"  You  've  been  out  an  age, "  Mrs.  Beale  con- 
tinued; "I  myself  couldn't  imagine  what 
had  become  of  you.  The  whole  morning," 
she  exclaimed,  "and  luncheon  long  since 
over ! " 

Sir  Claude  appeared  indifferent  to  that. 
"Did  Mrs.  Wix  go  down  with  you?"  he 
only  asked. 

"  Not  she ;  she  never  budged ! "  —  and  Mrs. 
Beale's  flush,  to  Maisie's  vision,  deepened. 
"  She  moped  there  —  she  did  n't  so  much  as 
come  out  to  me;  and  when  I  sent  to  invite 
her  she  simply  declined  to  appear.  She 
said  she  wanted  nothing,  and  I  went  down 
alone.  But  when  I  came  up,  fortunately  a 
little  primed,"  —  and  Mrs.  Beale  smiled 
a  fine  smile  of  battle  — •  "  she  was  in  the 
field!" 

"  And  you  had  a  big  row  ?  " 

"  We  had  a  big  row. "  She  assented  with 
a  nod  of  the  same  size.  "And  while  you  left 
me  to  that  sort  of  thing  I  should  like  to 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      453 

know  where  you  were !  "  She  paused  for  a 
reply,  but  Sir  Claude  merely  looked  at 
Maisie;  a  movement  that  promptly  quick- 
ened her  challenge.  "Where  the  mischief 
have  you  been  ?  " 

"  You  seem  to  take  it  as  hard  as  Mrs. 
Wix,"  Sir  Claude  returned. 

"  I  take  it  as  I  choose  to  take  it,  and  you 
don't  answer  my  question." 

He  looked  again  at  Maisie,  and  as  if  for 
an  aid  to  this  effort;  whereupon  she  smiled 
at  her  stepmother  and  offered :  "  We  've 
been  everywhere." 

Mrs.  Beale,  however,  made  her  no  re- 
sponse, thereby  adding  to  a  surprise  of  which 
our  young  lady  had  already  felt  the  light 
brush.  She  had  received  neither  a  greeting 
nor  a  glance;  but  perhaps  this  was  not 
more  remarkable  than  the  omission,  in  re- 
spect to  Sir  Claude,  parted  with  in  London 
two  days  before,  of  any  sign  of  a  sense  of 
their  reunion.  Most  remarkable  of  all  was 
Mrs.  Beale' s  announcement  of  the  pledge 
given  by  Mrs.  Wix  and  not  hitherto  revealed 
to  her  pupil.  Instead  of  heeding  this  wit- 
ness she  went  on  with  acerbity :  "  It  might 
surely  have  occurred  to  you  that  something 
would  come  up." 


454      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

Sir  Claude  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  so  late,  nor  that  we  had  been 
out  so  long.  We  were  n't  hungry.  It 
passed  like  a  flash.  What  has  come  up?  " 

"Oh,  that  she's  disgusted,"  said  Mrs. 
Beale. 

"  Disgusted  ?     With  whom  ?  " 

"With  Maisie."  Even  now  she  never 
looked  at  the  child,  who  stood  there  equally 
associated  and  disconnected.  "  For  having 
no  moral  sense." 

"How  should  she  have?"  Sir  Claude 
tried  again  to  shine  a  little  at  the  companion 
of  his  walk.  "  How,  at  any  rate,  is  it  proved 
by  her  going  out  with  me?  " 

"Don't  ask  me;  ask  that  woman.  She 
drivels  when  she  doesn't  rage,"  Mrs.  Beale, 
declared. 

"And  she  leaves  the  child? " 

"She  leaves  the  child,"  said  Mrs.  Beale 
with  great  emphasis,  looking  more  than  ever 
over  Maisie' s  head. 

In  this  position  suddenly  a  change  came 
into  her  face,  caused,  as  the  others  could, 
the  next  thing,  see,  by  the  reappearance  of 
Mrs.  Wix  in  the  doorway  which,  on  coming 
in  at  Sir  Claude's  heels,  Maisie  had  left 
gaping.  "I  don't  leave  the  child  — I  don't, 


WHAT  MAISIE    KNEW      455 

I  don't ! "  she  thundered  from  the  threshold, 
advancing  upon  the  opposed  three,  but 
addressing  herself  directly  to  Maisie.  She 
was  girded,  positively  harnessed,  for  de- 
parture —  arrayed  as  she  had  been  arrayed 
on  her  advent  and  armed  with  a  small,  fat, 
rusty  reticule  which,  almost  in  the  manner 
of  a  battle-axe,  she  brandished  in  support  of 
her  words.  She  had  clearly  come  straight 
from  her  room,  where  Maisie  in  an  instant 
guessed  she  had  directed  the  removal  of  her 
minor  effects.  "I  don't  leave  you  till  I've 
given  you  another  chance.  Will  you  come 
with  me  ? " 

Maisie  turned  to  Sir  Claude,  who  struck 
her  as  having  been  removed  to  a  distance 
of  about  a  mile.  To  Mrs.  Beale  she  turned 
no  more  than  Mrs.  Beale  had  turned:  she 
felt  as  if  already  their  difference  had  been 
disclosed.  What  had  come  out  about  that 
in  the  scene  between  the  two  women? 
Enough  came  out  now,  at  all  events,  as  she 
put  it  practically  to  her  stepfather.  "Will 
you  come?  Won't  you?"  she  inquired  as 
if  she  had  not  already  seen  that  she  should 
have  to  give  him  up.  It  was  the  last  flare 
of  her  dream;  by  this  time  she  was  afraid 
of  nothing. 


456      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  too  proud  to 
ask ! "  Mrs.  Wix  interposed.  Mrs.  Wix  was 
herself  conspicuously  too  proud. 

But  at  the  child's  words  Mrs.  Beale  had 
fairly  bounded.  "Come  away  from  me, 
Maisie?"  It  was  a  wail  of  dismay  and  re- 
proach in  which  her  stepdaughter  was  aston- 
ished to  read  that  she  had  had  no  hostile 
consciousness  and  that  if  she  had  been  so 
actively  grand  it  was  not  from  suspicion, 
but  from  strange  entanglements  of  modesty. 

Sir  Claude  presented  to  Mrs.  Beale  an 
expression  positively  sick.  "Don't  put  it 
to  her  that  way!"  There  had  indeed  been 
something  in  Mrs.  Beale' s  tone,  and  for  a 
moment  our  young  lady  was  reminded  of  the 
old  days  in  which  so  many  of  her  friends  had 
been  "compromised." 

This  friend  blushed  -—  it  was  before  Mrs. 
Wix;  and  though  she  bridled  she  took  the 
hint.  "No  — it  isn't  the  way."  Then  she 
showed  she  knew  the  way.  "Don't  be  a 
still  bigger  fool,  dear,  but  go  straight  to 
your  room  and  wait  there  till  I  can  come  to 
you." 

Maisie  made  no  motion  to  obey,  but  Mrs. 
Wix  raised  a  hand  that  forestalled  every 
evasion.  "Don't  move  till  you've  heard 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      457 

me.  /  'm  going,  but  I  must  first  understand. 
Have  you  lost  it  again  ?  " 

Maisie  surveyed,  for  the  idea  of  a  partic- 
ular loss,  the  immensity  of  space.  Then 
she  replied  lamely  enough:  "I  feel  as  if  I 
had  lost  everything." 

Mrs.  Wix  looked  dark.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  have  lost  what  we  found  together, 
with  so  much  difficulty,  two  days  ago  ?  "  As 
her  pupil  failed  of  response,  she  continued  : 
"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  've  already  for- 
gotten what  we  found  together  ? " 

Maisie  dimly  remembered.  "  My  moral 
sense?" 

"Your  moral  sense.  Haven't  I,  after  all, 
brought  it  out  ?  "  She  spoke  as  she  had  never 
spoken  even  in  the  schoolroom  and  with  the 
book  in  her  hand. 

It  brought  back  to  the  child  a  recollection 
of  how  sometimes  she  could  n't  repeat  on 
Friday  the  sentence  that  had  been  glib  on 
Wednesday,  and  she  thought  with  conscious 
stupidity  of  the  mystery  on  which  she  was 
now  pulled  up.  Sir  Claude  and  Mrs.  Beale 
stood  there  like  visitors  at  an  "exam." 
She  had  indeed  an  instant  a  whiff  of  the 
faint  flower  that  Mrs.  Wix  pretended  to  have 
plucked  and  now,  with  such  a  peremptory 


458      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

hand,  passed  under  her  nose.  Then  it  left 
her,  and,  as  if  she  were  sinking  with  a  slip 
from  a  foothold,  her  arms  made  a  short  jerk. 
What  this  jerk  represented  was  the  spasm 
within  her  of  something  still  deeper  than  a 
moral  sense.  She  looked  at  her  examiner; 
she  looked  at  the  visitors ;  she  felt  the  ris- 
ing of  the  tears  she  had  kept  down  at  the 
station.  The  only  thing  was  the  old  flat, 
shameful  schoolroom  plea.  "I  don't  know 
—  I  don't  know." 

"Then  you  've  lost  it."  Mrs.  Wix  seemed 
to  close  the  book  as  she  fixed  the  straight- 
eners  on  Sir  Claude.  "You  've  nipped  it  in 
the  bud.  You  've  killed  it  when  it  had 
begun  to  live." 

She  was  a  newer  Mrs.  Wix  than  ever,  a 
Mrs.  Wix  high  and  great;  but  Sir  Claude 
was  not  after  all  to  be  treated  as  a  little  boy 
with  a  missed  lesson.  "  I  've  not  killed  any- 
thing," he  said;  "on  the  contrary,  I  think 
I  've  produced  life.  I  don't  know  what  to 
call  it  —  I  have  n't  even  known  how  decently 
to  deal  with  it  to  approach  it ;  but  whatever 
it  is  it 's  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  've  ever 
met  —  it 's  exquisite,  it  's  sacred."  He  had 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  though  a  trace 
of  the  sickness  he  had  just  shown  still  per- 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      459 

haps  lingered  there  his  face  bent  itself  with 
extraordinary  gentleness  on  both  the  friends 
he  was  about  to  lose.  "Do  you  know  what 
I  came  back  for? "  he  asked  of  the  elder. 

"  I  think  I  do ! "  cried  Mrs.  Wix,  surpris- 
ingly unmollified  and  with  a  crimson  on  her 
brow  that  was  like  a  wave  of  color  reflected 
from  the  luridness  lately  enacted  with  Mrs. 
Beale.  That  lady,  as  if  a  little  besprinkled 
by  such  turns  of  the  tide,  uttered  a  loud,  in- 
articulate protest  and,  averting  herself,  stood 
a  moment  at  the  window. 

"I  came  back  with  a  proposal,"  said  Sir 
Claude. 

"Tome?"  Mrs.  Wix  asked. 

"To  Maisie.  That  she  should  give  you 
up." 

"And  does  she?" 

Sir  Claude  wavered.  "  Tell  her !  "  he  then 
exclaimed  to  the  child,  also  turning  away 
as  if  to  give  her  the  chance.  But  Mrs.  Wix 
and  her  pupil  stood  confronted  in  silence, 
Maisie  whiter  than  ever  —  more  awkward, 
more  rigid  and  yet  more  dumb.  They 
looked  at  each  other  hard,  and  as  nothing 
came  from  them  Sir  Claude  faced  about 
again.  "  You  won't  tell  her  ?  —  you  can't  ?  " 
Still  she  said  nothing;  whereupon,  address- 


460      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

ing  Mrs.  Wix,  he  broke  into  a  kind  of 
ecstasy.  "  She  refused  —  she  refused !  " 

Maisie,  at  this,  found  her  voice.  "I 
did  n't  refuse.  I  did  n't,"  she  said  again. 

It  brought  Mrs.  Beale  straight  back  to 
her.  "  You  accepted,  angel  —  you  ac- 
cepted ! "  She  threw  herself  upon  the  child 
and  before  Maisie  could  resist  had  sunk 
with  her  upon  the  sofa,  possessed  of  her, 
encircling  her.  "  You  've  given  her  up 
already,  you  've  given  her  up  forever,  and 
you  're  ours  and  ours  only  now,  and  the 
sooner  she  's  off  the  better ! " 

Maisie  had  shut  her  eyes,  but  at  a  word 
of  Sir  Claude's  they  opened.  "  Let  her  go !  " 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Beale. 

"  Never,  never,  never ! "  cried  Mrs.  Beale. 
Maisie  felt  herself  more  embraced. 

"  Let  her  go  !  "  Sir  Claude  more  intensely 
repeated.  He  was  looking  at  Mrs.  Beale, 
and  there  was  something  in  his  voice. 
Maisie  knew,  from  a  loosening  of  arms,  that 
she  had  become  conscious  of  what  it  was; 
she  slowly  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  the  child 
stood  there  again,  dropped  and  divided. 
"You're  free — -you're  free,"  Sir  Claude 
went  on;  at  which  Maisie's  back  became 
aware  of  a  push  that  vented  resentment  and 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW       461 

that  placed  her  again  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  the  cynosure  of  every  eye  and  not 
knowing  which  way  to  turn. 

She  turned  with  an  effort  to  Mrs.  Wix. 
"  I  did  n't  refuse  to  give  you  up.  I  said  I 
would  if  he  ' d  give  up." 

"Give  up  Mrs.  Beale?"  burst  from  Mrs. 
Wix. 

"  Give  up  Mrs.  Beale.  What  do  you  call 
that  but  exquisite?"  Sir  Claude  demanded 
of  all  of  them,  the  lady  mentioned  included ; 
speaking  with  a  relish  as  intense  now  as  if 
some  lovely  work  of  art  or  of  nature  had 
suddenly  been  set  down  among  them.  He 
was  rapidly  recovering  himself  on  this  basis 
of  fine  appreciation.  "  She  made  her  condi- 
tion —  with  such  a  sense  of  what  it  should 
be !  She  made  the  only  right  one. " 

"The  only  right  one?"  —  Mrs.  Beale  re- 
turned to  the  charge.  She  had  taken,  a 
moment  before,  a  check  from  him,  but  she 
was  not  to  be  checked  on  this.  "How  can 
you  talk  such  rubbish,  and  how  can  you  back 
her  up  in  such  impertinence  ?  What  in  the 
world  have  you  done  to  her  to  make  her  think 
of  such  stuff?"  She  stood  there  in  right- 
eous wrath ;  she  flashed  her  eyes  round  the 
circle.  Maisie  took  them  full  in  her  own, 


462      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

knowing  that  here  at  last  was  the  moment  she 
had  had  most  to  reckon  with.  But  as  regards 
her  stepdaughter  Mrs.  Beale  subdued  herself 
to  an  inquiry  deeply  mild.  "  Have  you  made, 
my  own  love,  any  such  condition  as  that  ?  " 

Somehow,  now  that  it  was  there,  the  great 
moment  was  not  so  bad.  What  helped  the 
child  was  that  she  knew  what  she  wanted. 
All  her  learning  and  learning  had  made  her 
at  last  learn  that ;  so  that  if  she  waited  an 
instant  to  reply  it  was  only  from  the  desire 
to  be  nice.  Bewilderment  had  simply  gone, 
or  at  any  rate  was  going  fast.  Finally  she  an- 
swered :  "  Will  you  give  him  up  ?  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  leave  her  alone  —  leave  her,  leave 
her!"  Sir  Claude,  in  sudden  supplication, 
murmured  to  Mrs.  Beale. 

Mrs.  Wix  at  the  same  instant  found  an- 
other apostrophe.  "  Is  n't  it  enough  for  you, 
madam,  to  have  brought  her  to  discussing 
your  relations  ? " 

Mrs.  Beale  left  Sir  Claude  unheeded,  but 
Mrs.  Wix  could  make  her  flame.  "  My  rela- 
tions ?  What  do  you  know,  you  hideous  crea- 
ture, about  my  relations,  and  what  business  on 
earth  have  you  to  speak  of  them  ?  Leave  the 
room  this  instant,  you  horrible  old  woman  !  " 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  —  you  must 


WHAT    MAISIE   KNEW     463 

really  catch  your  boat,"  Sir  Claude  said  dis- 
tressfully to  Mrs.  Wix.  He  was  out  of  it  now, 
or  wanted  to  be ;  he  knew  the  worst  and  had 
accepted  it;  what  now  concerned  him  was 
to  prevent,  to  dissipate  vulgarities.  "Won't 
you  go  —  won't  you  just  get  off  quickly?  " 

"With  the  child  as  quickly  as  you  like. 
Not  without  her. "  Mrs.  Wix  was  adamant. 

"  Then  why  did  you  lie  to  me,  you  fiend  ?  " 
Mrs.  Beale  almost  yelled.  "Why  did  you 
tell  me  an  hour  ago  that  you  had  given  her  up  ?  " 

"Because  I  despaired  of  her  —  because  I 
thought  she  had  left  me. "  Mrs.  Wix  turned 
to  Maisie.  "  You  were  with  them  —  in  their 
connection.  But  now  your  eyes  are  open, 
and  I  take  you !  " 

"No  you  don't!"  — Mrs.  Beale  made, 
with  a  great  fierce  jump,  a  wild  snatch  at 
her  stepdaughter.  She  caught  her  by  the 
arm  and,  completing  an  instinctive  move- 
ment, whirled  her  round  in  a  further  leap  to 
the  door,  which  had  been  closed  by  Sir 
Claude  the  instant  their  voices  had  risen. 
She  fell  back  against  it  and,  even  while 
denouncing  and  waring  off  Mrs.  Wix,  kept 
it  closed  in  an  incoherence  of  passion.  "Yon 
don't  take  her,  but  you  bundle  yourself;  die 
stays  with  her  own  people  and  she  *s  rid  of 


464      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

you !  I  never  heard  anything  so  monstrous ! " 
Sir  Claude  had  rescued  Maisie  and  kept  hold 
of  her;  he  held  her  in  front  of  him,  resting 
his  hands  very  lightly  on  her  shoulders  and 
facing  the  loud  adversaries.  Mrs.  Beale's 
flush  had  dropped ;  she  had  turned  pale  with 
a  splendid  wrath.  She  kept  protesting  and 
dismissing  Mrs.  Wix ;  she  pressed  her  back  to 
the  door  to  prevent  Maisie's  flight;  she  drove 
out  Mrs.  Wix  by  the  window  or  the  chimney. 
"You  're  a  nice  one —  '  discussing  relations  ' 
—  with  your  talk  of  our  *  connection  '  and 
your  insults !  What  in  the  world  is  our  con- 
nection but  the  love  of  the  child  who  is  our 
duty  and  our  life  and  who  holds  us  together 
as  closely  as  she  originally  brought  us  ?  " 

"  I  know,  I  know ! "  Maisie  said  with  a 
burst  of  eagerness.  "  I  did  bring  you." 

The  strangest  of  laughs  escaped  from  Sir 
Claude.  "  You  did  bring  us  —  you  did !  " 
His  hands  went  up  and  down  gently  on  her 
shoulders. 

Mrs.  Wix  so  dominated  the  situation  that 
she  had  something  sharp  for  every  one. 
"  There  you  have  it,  you  see ! "  she  preg- 
nantly remarked  to  her  pupil. 

"  WMlyou  give  him  up  ? "  Maisie  persisted 
to  Mrs.  Beale. 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      465 

<trYc>  you,  you  abominable  little  horror?" 
that  lady  indignantly  inquired,  "and  to  this 
ignorant  old  idiot  who  has  filled  your  dread- 
ful little  mind  with  her  wickedness?  Have 
you  been  a  hideous  little  hypocrite  all  these 
years  that  I  've  slaved  to  make  you  love  me 
and  deludedly  believed  that  you  did  ?  " 

"I  love  Sir  Claude — I  love  him"  Maisie 
replied  with  a  sense,  slightly  rueful  and 
embarrassed,  that  she  appeared  to  offer  it 
as  something  that  would  do  as  well.  Sir 
Claude  had  continued  to  pat  her,  and  it  was 
really  an  answer  to  his  pats. 

"She  hates  you  —  she  hates  you,"  he  ob- 
served with  the  oddest  quietness  to  Mrs. 
Beale. 

His  quietness  made  her  blaze.  "  And  you 
back  her  up  in  it  and  give  me  up  to  outrage  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  only  insist  that  she  's  free  —  she  's 
free." 

Mrs.  Beale  stared  —  Mrs.  Beale  glared. 
"  Free  to  starve  with  this  pauper  lunatic?  " 

"  I  '11  do  more  for  her  than  you  ever  did !  " 
Mrs.  Wix  cried.  "I '11  work  my  fingers  to 
the  bone." 

Maisie,  with  Sir  Claude's  hands  still  on 
her  shoulders,  felt,  just  as  she  felt  the  fine 
surrender  in  them,  that  over  her  head  he  looked 
30 


466      WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW 

in  a  certain  way  at  Mrs.  Wix.  "  You  need  n't 
do  that, "  she  heard  him  say ;  "  she  has  means. " 

"  Means  ?  —  Maisie  ? "  Mrs.  Beale  shrieked. 
"  Means  that  her  vile  father  has  stolen  ! " 

"  I'll  get  them  back  —  I '  11  get  them  back. 
I'll  look  into  it."  He  smiled  and  nodded 
at  Mrs.  Wix. 

This  had  a  fearful  effect  on  his  other 
friend.  "  Have  n't  /  looked  into  it,  I  should 
like  to  know,  and  haven't  I  found  —  an 
abyss?  It 's  too  inconceivable,  your  cruelty 
to  me!"  she  wildly  broke  out.  She  had 
hot  tears  in  her  eyes. 

He  spoke  to  her  very  kindly,  almost 
coaxingly.  "We'll  look  into  it  again; 
we'll  look  into  it  together.  It  is  an  abyss, 
but  he  can  be  made  —  or  Ida  can  !  Think 
of  the  money  they're  getting  now!"  he 
laughed.  "It's  all  right,  it's  all  right," 
he  continued.  "  It  would  n't  do  —  it 
wouldn't  do.  We  cant  work  her  in.  It  's 
perfectly  true  —  she  's  unique.  We  're  not 
good  enough  —  oh  no !  "  And,  quite  exuber- 
antly, he  laughed  again. 

"Not  good  enough,  and  that  beast  is?" 
Mrs.  Beale  shouted. 

At  this,  for  a  moment,  there  was  a  hush 
in  the  room,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  Sir 


WHAT   MAISIE    KNEW      467 

Claude  replied  to  the  question  by  moving 
with  Maisie  to  Mrs.  Wix.  The  next  thing 
the  child  knew  she  was  at  that  lady's  side 
with  an  arm  firmly  grasped.  Mrs.  Beale 
still  guarded  the  door.  "Let  them  pass," 
said  Sir  Claude  at  last. 

She  remained  there,  however;  Maisie  saw 
the  pair  look  at  each  other.  Then  she  saw 
Mrs.  Beale  turn  to  her.  "I  'm  your  mother 
now,  Maisie.  And  he  's  your  father." 

"That's  just  where  it  is!"  Mrs.  Wix 
sighed  with  an  effect  of  irony  positively 
detached  and  philosophic. 

Mrs.  Beale  continued  to  address  her  young 
friend,  and  her  effort  to  be  reasonable  and 
tender  was  in  its  way  remarkable.  "We  're 
representative,  you  know,  of  Mr.  Farange 
and  his  former  wife.  This  person  repre- 
sents mere  illiterate  presumption.  We  take 
our  stand  on  the  law. " 

"Oh  the  law,  the  law!"  Mrs.  Wix 
superbly  jeered.  "You  had  better  indeed 
let  the  law  have  a  look  at  you ! " 

"Let  them  pass  —  let  them  pass!"  Sir 
Claude  pressed  his  friend  —  he  pleaded. 

But  she  fastened  herself  still  to  Maisie. 
"Do  you  hate  me,  dearest  ? " 

Maisie  looked  at  her  with  new  eyes,  but 


468      WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW 

answered    as     she     had    answered    before. 
"  Will  you  give  him  up  ?  " 

Mrs.  Beale's  rejoinder  hung  fire,  but  when 
it  came  it  was  noble.  "You  shouldn't  talk 
to  me  of  such  things !  "  She  was  shocked  to 
tears. 

For  Mrs.  Wix,  however,  it  was  her  resent- 
ment that  was  shocking.  "  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself ! "  she  roundly  declared. 

Sir  Claude  made  a  supreme  appeal.  "  Will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  allow  these  horrors  to 
terminate? " 

Mrs.  Beale  fixed  her  eyes  on  him,  and 
again  Maisie  watched  them.  "You  should 
do  him  justice,"  Mrs.  Wix  went  on  to  Mrs. 
Beale.  "We've  always  been  devoted  to 
him,  Maisie  and  I  —  and  he  has  shown  how 
much  he  likes  us.  He  would  like  to  please 
her;  he  would  like  even,  I  think,  to  please 
me.  But  he  hasn't  given  you  up." 

They  stood  confronted,  the  step-parents, 
still  under  Maisie' s  observation.  That 
observation  had  never  sunk  so  deep 'as  at 
this  particular  moment.  "Yes,  my  dear,  I 
haven't  given  you  up,"  Sir  Claude  said  at 
last  to  Mrs.  Beale,  "and  if  you  'd  like  me  to 
treat  our  friends  here  as  solemn  witnesses  I 
don't  mind  giving  you  my  word  for  it  that  I 


WHAT   MAISIE   KNEW      469 

never,  never  will.  There !  "  he  dauntlessly 
exclaimed. 

"He  can't!"  Mrs.  Wix  as  distinctly 
commented. 

Mrs.  Beale,  erect  and  alive  in  her  defeat, 
jerked  her  handsome  face  about.  "He 
can't !  "  she  literally  mocked. 

"He  can't,  he  can't,  he  can't!"  Sir 
Claude's  gay  emphasis  wonderfully  carried 
it  off. 

Mrs.  Beale  took  it  all  in,  yet  she  held  her 
ground;  on  which  Maisie  addressed  Mrs. 
Wix.  "  Sha'n't  we  lose  the  boat  ? " 

"Yes,  we  shall  lose  the  boat,"  Mrs.  Wix 
mentioned  to  Sir  Claude. 

Mrs.  Beale  meanwhile  faced  full  at  Maisie. 
"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you!"  she 
launched. 

"Good-by,"  said  Maisie  to  Sir  Claude. 

"  Good-by,  Maisie,"  Sir  Claude  answered. 

Mrs.  Beale  came  away  from  the  door. 
"  Good-by !  "  she  hurled  at  Maisie ;  then 
passed  straight  across  the  room  and  disap- 
peared in  the  adjoining  one. 

Sir  Claude  had  reached  the  door  and 
opened  it.  Mrs.  Wix  was  already  out.  On 
the  threshold  Maisie  paused ;  she  put  out  her 
hand  to  her  stepfather.  He  took  it  and  held 


470      WHAT    MAISIE    KNEW 

it  a  moment,  and  their  eyes  met  as  the  eyes 
of  those  who  have  done  for  each  other  what 
they  can. ,  "  Good-by,"  he  repeated. 

"Good-by."  And  Maisie  followed  Mrs. 
Wix. 

They  caught  the  steamer,  which  was  just 
putting  off,  and,  hustled  across  the  gulf, 
found  themselves  on  the  deck  so  breathless 
and  so  scared  that  they  gave  up  half  the 
voyage  to  letting  their  emotion  sink.  It 
sank  slowly  and  imperfectly;  but  at  last, 
in  mid-channel,  surrounded  by  the  quiet 
sea,  Mrs.  Wix  had  courage  to  revert.  "I 
didn't  look  back,  did  you?" 

"Yes.     He  wasn't  there,"  said  Maisie. 

"Not  on  the  balcony?" 

Maisie  waited  a  moment;  then,  "He 
wasn't  there,"  she  simply  said  again. 

Mrs.  Wix  also  was  silent  awhile.  "He 
went  to  her,"  she  finally  observed. 

"  Oh,  I  know ! "  the  child  replied. 

Mrs.  Wix  gave  a  sidelong  look.  She  still 
had  room  for  wonder  at  what  Maisie  knew. 


7  02.00 


M 


